


We Shall Be Monsters

by Erinye



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Body Horror, Frankenstein!AU, Gothic, Homophobia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Period-Typical Racism, Slow Burn, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:03:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 69,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6395620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erinye/pseuds/Erinye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haunted by the loss of his loved ones and the decline of his family’s fortune, Doctor Thorin Eijkenskialdi conducts unspeakable experiments in the last remaining property of the once formidable Durins’ estate. Rumour has it that he has grown obsessed with the idea of conquering Death, and that he is fostering some great evil behind the high walls of his castle - something he should be afraid of in the first place.<br/>Enters one Bilbo Baggins - is it redemption or damnation?</p><p><i>Frankenstein!AU</i>, featuring unhealthy obsessions, a trip too many to the graveyard, gothic romance, and a reasonable amount of screaming. Not everyone’s cup of tea, please be warned before reading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> I would have never been able to write another story in such a short time without [zaphodbeelebro](http://zaphodbeeblebro.tumblr.com/)'s support - her beta-reading never fails to help me dealing with a language that's not my own, and just knowing that she's the one taking care of my stories is an additional (and lovely) reason to keep writing and writing for this fandom.  
> Thank you darling, now more than ever.

_“..so beautiful yet terrific...”_

Sparks leapt over the iron frame of the great engine, while electricity burnt blue along the vines of wires that ran on the ceiling like the infestation of an impossible plant; ribbons of flames were stirred when another blow fell on the hard stone of the tower, like a hammer hitting an anvil, but it didn’t matter. He had stepped too far to turn his back. Stones and bricks might have tumbled down and the castle crumbled to dust, and still it wouldn’t have mattered - a small fire consuming one corner of the vast room was a ridiculous thing that could be dealt with later.

Another matter was the agonising screech that rose from each screw and junction, as if the whole thing could tear itself from its nest - _no, worse than that_ , for the apparatus had not just been put there, but built inside the tower so that from the tower it had taken its shape, and sucked its sap from it. It was more like splintered bones fleeing their own flesh, and screaming in a terror of shards of glass, bolts shot like bullets from their sockets, ropes snapping.

“It won’t hold!”

“It will!”

He did not feel any confidence, but shouting strengthened his grim resolve to get it over with it one way or another.

His own hands were bleeding and burnt, his thick gloves hung in pieces from his wrists, because he had been struggling to keep the apparatus together, driving nails through the boards and replacing over-heated cables. He was also short of breath, both from the smoke that rose and couldn’t be dispelled too fast despite the great high of the tower chamber, and from the continuous running up and down the flights of iron and wood stairs he had built for the sole purpose of reaching each and every part of his engine - now under the danger of breaking his neck, since the whole tower shook and rattled like a horse driven wild by the storm.  

And what a storm... _mein Gott_ , he thought - for the Christian god would always be associated with the German language in his mind - the storm was a beauty. There would never be another like this in ten, twenty years.

It was the sort of storm that would have turned another man to prayers. He knew that peasants were huddling under the blackened roofs of their huts, embracing their hens and their cows to give and receive comfort; even the more enlightened _bürgermeister_ were probably kneeling by their beds with their wives and daughters - not with their sons though, for their sons had been sent as far as Wien to get an education, like he had been.   

The rain flogged the thick walls and there was an ominous roar rising in the background - he knew it to be the sound of the river, bloated with mud and thickened with rubble and trunks. At least once a year the river would grow out of its bed, so he also knew what would happen: the water would flood the fields and the cellars of the castle, leaving behind mud, animal carcasses, and a thick mildew that could not be scraped away from the old stones of the basement; but it would not touch the tower. And that was enough to make him indifferent to the raging waters.

Lightning ripped the sky, so that from the narrow high windows of the tower one could see the night turn pale and then blacker than ever until the next blow; thunder rolled down the valley, like the angry voices of giants perched over the mountains; and the storm hit the tower, again and again, its energy ensnared by the metal trap built for that very purpose. The lightning flashed with increasing frequency and the electricity was channelled into the apparatus, which trembled and moaned under the pleasure and the pain of such power running through its bones.

He checked the valves and the pressure gauges, and above all the precious ampoules of fluids. Since many had broken in the past, he had had these made especially with the thickest glass according to his instructions. Still, when debris had started to fall from the apparatus, he had hoisted up spare boards to create a shelter for those most delicate parts of his venture - the ampoules and the slab. And over the slab he would gladly throw himself if things got worse and there was no other way to save the work of many sleepless nights and torturous days.

He poured more blood into one of the ampoules, working with great care since he had already spilled one wineskin of blood in his haste to refill the ampoule - the stone floor was still smeared with red. He had learnt some time ago that it was difficult to come by the right kind of blood and that an error in that regard could compromise the entire project, so he couldn’t afford to waste any more of the reserve. Yet this time everything went well, and he greedily surveyed the blood running down the glass tubes and toward the slab.

“How’s the pressure?” he asked, without turning.

“High!” his assistant roared over the screeching of the apparatus and the peal of thunder.

“Not enough,” he gritted through his teeth.

He was looking at the body laid on the slab and could detect no sign that it was working. The skin still retained its grey hue, the limbs were hardly less stiff than when he had taken the body out of its ice bath, the eyeballs did not move under the pale lids. It was, indeed, a dead thing that looked no closer to life than the stone of walls and floor, or the bronze knockers on the doors.

He growled and hastily turned toward the gauges.

“More,” he hissed, while he turned one of the valves, shaking off the hands that tried to stop him.

“You’re going to blow us both to smithereens!”

“He shall live...he _must_!” he shouted back.

For a moment he thought that he would have to fight with his fists to carry on his work, but his assistant just swore and then went to tame the fire, which had risen higher in the last few minutes.

He hid his face behind his hand for a moment, breathing hard and struggling to regain his _sangfroid_. Then he inspected the body again, looking for the smallest hint that something was going on below the surface.

The air crackled with electricity and smelt heavily of chemicals and rain - it poured in from a chink in the roof, where the lightning had struck repeatedly. When he raised the voltage, blue sparks danced on the small wrists and the pale forehead, leaving burns. The stench of burnt flesh filled his nostrils until he felt his throat convulse. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get his nausea and the memories of the battle field under control; he managed it, as he always did in the end, and when he opened his eyes he noticed it.

It was a small twitch, easy to overlook among all the spasms generated by the powerful current running through the body. Yet it was there when he lowered the voltage...a tremble of the upper lip, no matter how dark and stiff the mouth looked. He took a small mirror he kept on himself for this purpose and put it close to those lips - _nothing_. He raised the voltage again, hardly flinching when another lightning strike fell on the tower with a frightening sound - how many peasants would think that this was the very voice of Death? But this could be Life too, if only his calculations were proved right...

The body bounced against the restraints and again the smell of burnt flesh was overwhelming. When he looked at the body he regretted all the damage inflicted to it by the process. No matter how much care he had devoted to restraining limbs and protecting teeth, providing padding for each leather strap and metal ring, he knew that the damage count already included blisters and burns, a broken wrist, several sprained muscles, maybe a dislocated knee. If the body would live, it would wake up screaming.

 _But isn’t that how we all come to life?_ , he thought grimly.

Another lightening strike, but this time something went wrong, for the tower was suddenly cast into darkness. Only the flames still burning in one corner shed some light around, but it was enough for him to reach for an oil lamp and strike a match. His assistant approached him, his face and his hands blackened, but his eyes alert.

“The fire won’t be a problem,” he promised in a low grumble.

He knew that his assistant was seeking some forgiveness for the way he had lost his temper and backbone earlier, and he gladly granted it, putting his heavy hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Well done,” he praised him, though his eyes immediately ran back to the slab.

“The storm...is gone,” the assistant whispered, as if the sudden silence demanded some sort of reverence on their part.

“Moved further on,” he corrected him, speaking louder to defy the eerie quietness that had fallen upon them.

The apparatus was still shivering with thuds and snaps, creaking and groaning like a dying thing forgotten in a corner, a piteous old dog. Even if the storm would come back, the apparatus would not work without being restored to its healthier state - and that would take days or maybe weeks, and by then everything else would be so corrupted that he would have to start again.

The thought of going through it all from the awful beginning threatened to send him into a fit of blind, dark rage. He swallowed it with great difficulty, and turned to his assistant.

“Light other lamps. I need to see.”

With half a dozen oil lamps perched over as many supports around the slab, the scene turned out to be uncannily similar to a mourning vigil, down to the grey body laid between them.

“May you rise,” he said, even as a cold chill ran up his spine.

His words taunted the traditional formula peasants threw at their dead while they watched over them, by day and by night, waiting for the burial. Since they feared that corpses could walk among the living in many a frightening shape to haunt and maul them, they never left their dead unattended until they were buried deep in the earth. And mechanically, obsessively, they whispered into their cold ears as they still lay on bed and tables, or hard ground: _may you rise no more, may you rise no more, may you rise no more_.

“He’s breathing.”

“What?”

He was startled, because he had been watching and watching, but his eyes were tired and smarting, and there was no more power to apply; all the fluids and the chemicals he had so carefully prepared had been sucked in, and...he pressed his fists against his eyes, his forehead.

Then he crouched by the slab, until his eyes were level with the chest. It expanded ever so slowly, then deflated again. Stillness. After what seemed a long time the movement was repeated, two times in a row. Another pause, shorter, then something that looked just like breathing. This time he took away the mould he had used to keep the teeth from shattering and pushed the mirror before the mouth. He knew that the mirror would be fogged over, because he could feel the breath on his fingertips.

Then came a breath that was as if the body meant to suck in all the air in the chamber, rasping and terrible as it was. _You greedy thing_ , he thought, with fearful pride. After the air had got in, it got out in a scream, a wail that would have scared off men who had never heard the yells of gutted men abandoned on the battlefield. So they did not move away from the slab, but rapidly checked the other vital signs.

“Alive! He’s alive!” he cried, even as the howling continued.

He was giddy with triumph and his hand slipped a few times while he prepared the syringe of sedative. Since he could not steady his fingers, his assistant pried the syringe from his hand and performed the injection. While the needle bore into the skin between shoulder and neck, he looked down in the now wide-open eyes - one grey-blue, the other dark brown; both terrible.

 

*

 

_[excerpt from the diary of Doctor Thorin Eijkenskialdi]_

_September 22 nd, 18--  _

_Dead._

_Despite our combined efforts, he died at 1.35 in the morning. I was unable to ascertain the cause of death, but I fear that this must be ascribed to my distracted state of mind rather than to any mystery about it._

_It was probably heart failure, as was the case with the other two that came before him. It seems that the very process that brings them to life also damages their heart beyond repair - I write “heart” since I have no notion with regard to their brain. None of them lived long enough to allow me to discover whether they possessed a sound mind or were but poor fools. Yet I can’t help thinking that there was a spark of intelligence in the eyes of this last one. I would have liked to pursue it, but that will not be._

_I’m calmer now, but I cannot sleep._

_Dwalin asked if there is going to be another; clearly he wished to hear me say - to hear me swear - that there will not be any further attempt. I said nothing, since he could guess my answer. He was not pleased when we parted to reach our rooms, but neither was I._

_He defied my judgement this night. Although I appreciate the fact that he believed our safety threatened, I cannot allow his worries to stand between me and success. I wonder when the time will come that Dwalin will openly disobey me and I will have to remind him that I am the master of this castle, and he owes me his obedience as long as he lives under my roof._

_Still, he is my cousin. I would not like to send him away; besides, I need his help and his strength. Not many men could endure the physical and mental strain of our nocturnal escapades - they weigh heavily upon us, but they would break lesser men. No, I cannot think to trust anyone who does not share my blood with my discoveries. I must have Dwalin’s loyalty and support, but I suspect he is becoming increasingly and inopportunely worried regarding my mood._

_He tries to distract me, suggesting I go hunting or riding; even resorting to having fine liqueurs sent to the castle, as if drunkenness were a preferable state that the patient concentration with which I study the great works of the new scientific era. I cultivate my mind for higher purposes, and he thinks to amuse me with sly gypsies and their flea-ridden bears - I took the whip to them when they came here in Summer. He speaks to me of travelling to other countries. ~~Next he will have my sister write to me from Paris.~~  _

_Yet, while I despise Dwalin’s attempts to divert me from my task, I share his apprehensions concerning a new endeavour. Every time is more dangerous than the previous one, for - if we become more cunning with regard to the means of obtaining what I need - we are also more likely to be caught in the act. I cannot think of what will happen if we are discovered: I do not fear the law, because laws can be rewritten when time has come for the progress of mankind, but I do fear the prejudices and the bigotry of the people._

_These peasants would sooner burn this castle to the ground than open their eyes on the new world I’m creating for them all. I would show them Life, and they would raise their forks and their torches. It was not so long ago that witches were burnt at the stake by the dozen in these lands; modern medicine is still regarded with great suspicion, not to speak of other less accessible branches of science._

_Only a month ago I offered my services as a surgeon for a dying man whose family provides us with fresh milk, butter, and cheese. I would have probably saved his life, but his family refused to let me use my scalpel on him. They preferred prayers and some garlic concoction that they use for everything in these barbaric lands, from cold to typhoid fever. The man obviously died within four days and our milk was sour for five._

_I would not have earned much from saving the man (a cheese wheel, probably), yet it would have been a good stroke for my reputation. Dwalin is right about this at least: I need money to carry on with my experiments. I am an accomplished surgeon who studied in Wien, so it should be easy to win the trust of the people around here, especially of those better educated men who could pay for my services in gold and silver. Yet, it is not._

_There are a few doctors working between Hobbitburg and Mihályodú_ , _they are mostly incompetent and thus unwilling to compete with me. They whisper in their patients’ ears about the ruin of my people, the wars we fought and how we were butchered. They call me mad and obsessed, and give me the status of a devil walking on earth. It sits ill with Dwalin’s hope that I will have a few wealthy families seeking my medical advice and paying handsomely for it._

_But I am not truly disappointed by the lack of patients. It may hurt my vanity, but it leaves me more time for my studies and my experiments. I am not sure that I could bear to spend so many hours riding across the land, visiting the houses of conceited bourgeois and ignorant farmers; I prefer to be found at my desk or in the tower, no matter how often Dwalin suggests that it would be good for me to work with the living for a change._

_I gladly let lesser doctors deal with sickness and common ailments, for I wish to cross swords with a far greater rival - Death itself, and not its cronies._

_Why did ~~they~~ he die? He was alive, the apparatus and the storm had worked. I was sure that after failing twice, this time I had found it. I must discover the fatal flaw and amend it, for then I will have amended the flaw of mankind - death._

_I have here on my desk the works of Luigi Galvani, Giovanni Aldini, Alessandro Volta - the discoveries and foresight of these incomparable Italians make them my fathers and brothers in science. Yet I cannot find answers in their writings and I feel as if their works are not advanced enough to guide my experiments anymore - even Aldini’s public demonstrations are closer to a conjuring trick compared to what I have done._

_After all, his work was aimed to bringing men back from death, but to truly conquer Death one must master Life. So my works tends rather to the creation of a new being rather than_

_[the entry for this day ends here]_

 

*

 

Thorin raised his head, his hand still holding the quill. He was suddenly alert, for during his time in the army he had developed the useful habit of shifting from deep sleep or utmost concentration to perfect wakefulness with great ease in a few seconds. He had been roused from his writing by an unexpected sound.

Muffled and not close to his quarters, but nonetheless a sound that did not belong among the castle’s usual noises - neither with the creaking shutters nor the mouldy floorboards, nor the shuffling of the few servants. Besides, Thorin’s and Dwalin’s rooms were the only ones in that wing of the building, while the servants’ quarters were as far removed from the tower as possible, so that the chances of any of them prying into their master’s secrets were lower.

It was not Dwalin’s step. Nor was it a step. It rather resembled a hollow thud, something falling - maybe hammering. Yet, despite the fact that the sound was repeated at irregular intervals, Thorin could not guess what it was. There was always the possibility that some burglar had taken it into his mind to enter the castle; a poor plan indeed, since the prey was meagre and the master of the castle quite inclined to shed blood upon a trespassing.

The idea that a burglar could damage anything in the laboratory, accidentally or not, made Thorin act fast. He was still in his shirt and breeches, he only put his heavy boots on and retrieved the poker from beside the fireplace. He had no time to waste in loading a gun or waking Dwalin up; he felt over-confident about the strength of his body and the steadiness of his hand, so he left his room carrying the poker and a single candle.

He descended the stairs, straining his ears to hear the noise again. Though the storm had moved on, the rain was still falling heavily and the building resounded with it. Maybe a wild animal scared by the weather had strayed from his path and sought refuge, entering the castle through some forgotten passage; or Dwalin had taken another dog against Thorin’s wishes.

The noise returned, clearer and yet weaker. Thorin’s candle waved in a gush of air - draughts had always been a feature of Ered Luin, even in its prime, when the castle had been built as a hunting residence for the Durins. Still the flame was not extinguished and the smudge of orange light kept falling on worn carpets and high walls as Thorin advanced toward the tower.

With every step he took, he felt surer that the intruder was too close to the laboratory than would be safe - safe for the intruder, that was. Thorin’s grip on the poker shifted, while his instinct for territoriality mingled with the rational fear of what a stranger would discover upon entering the laboratory.

They had not removed the corpse yet, because Thorin meant to examine it in the hope of discovering more about what had gone wrong, as he had done with the other two immediately after their precocious death.   But this time Thorin had been so prostrated and distraught about the failure of his experiment that Dwalin had proposed they disposed of the remains on the morrow. Thorin harshly reproached himself for that weakness - the corpse should not only have been dissected sooner rather than later to better answer his questions, but now his shortcomings might lead to the exposure of his secrets.

A wail of pain. For the first time Thorin was stricken with the idea that maybe someone had got hurt - one of the servants in a fit, maybe Dwalin himself. He clenched his jaw and raised both his hands - one to show what was waiting for him by the entrance of the tower, and the other to strike down any possible threat.

At the beginning he could not understand what he saw.     

He immediately noted the door of the laboratory was ajar displaying the great shadow of the apparatus he had built over two years of addicting progresses and disheartening lapses; the smell of chemicals and damp wood (the fire Dwalin had tamed), the lightning that washed the corridor in white and grey, and the roll of thunder that followed.

But it took him more time to understand the figure revealed by the lightning: the limbs huddled in a corner, the disproportionately big feet with the ankles black and red with burns, the miserable nudity that was like a hideous costume worn to confound Thorin’s gaze.

Then he saw the thick cords of scars that ran everywhere - legs, arms, forehead. And more that were still hidden, since the creature had burrowed himself into the corner between the door and the wall, as if to mercifully show as little of his frightening self as possible. Thorin knew them all, the scars, for he had been the one to sew skin to skin, limb to limb. He knew the eyes as well, because he had already looked down into them (one grey-blue, one brown, both terrible). They watched him, alert like those of a beast; the posture was that of a beast, too, and beastly was the sound of the ragged breath that came from the creature’s mouth.

The creature was smeared with blood and even his hair was matted with it. For a terrible moment Thorin wondered whom he had already killed upon his awakening, but then he remembered that there had been blood on the floor of the laboratory where he had spilled one wineskin. The creature had soiled himself with the blood while he was crawling out of the tower, like he was now trying to crawl toward Thorin.

“Away!” he hissed in panic, shoving both the poker and the candle before him.     

The poker did not seem to attract any attention, but from the candle the creature cowered, hiding his face behind his arms and whimpering out of some incomprehensible fear. Experimentally, Thorin waved the candle toward the creature and noticed again the same fearful reaction; encouraged by the discovery, he took a step forward.

His blood ran cold. The more he looked at the creature, the more he saw that he was ugly and misshapen. Each time the lightening threw a pale flash of light in the corridor or the halo of the candle touched that body, Thorin noticed its errors and deformities, like those of a doll made from scraps - oh but a doll that would make children scream!

It was a hateful thing, and Thorin’s very soul recoiled from it.

He would have run away if his legs had not felt like lead. For a moment he thought about striking the creature with the poker, but Thorin had never killed in cold blood, and the creature was neither trying to attack him or run away. So he could not deal the blow, though maybe it would have been a merciful act, since the creature seemed to have no more conscience than an animal.

And Thorin felt a surge of hate, raw and sharp, spike up in his guts at the sight of his creation - not the pride he had envisaged, not the bliss of having achieved what he had worked so long for, nor the plaudits of his peers and the scientific world. None of that now. But a dim-lighted corridor smelling of blood, piss, and mould; where he stood alone in the sole company of his creation, _my great achievement_ he thought in horror.

Then pity overtook him, more unexpected than the loathing: the creature had not moved, but was letting out a pathetic sound. He was in pain and half-maddened with fright, naked and soiled, shaking with cold. _Alive_ , yes, but at what terrible cost.

 

It was a monster, and it was Thorin’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I'm on Tumblr as [erinyewrites](http://erinyewrites.tumblr.com/) and I'd love to hear from you readers / writers / passersby!


	2. How Ignorant Art Thou

_“How ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom!”_

 

“Shall I leave you to be murdered by him then?”

Thorin sighed and turned to Dwalin, who was still standing by the door eyeing the creature secured to the slab. They were no longer talking in whispers, as they had done the previous night, since it was clear by now that the creature could not understand them. Even when they talked about him, and in terms that should have caused some reaction, he offered nothing but a dull stare.

Thorin had wondered if he was deaf, but he reacted to common sounds and their voices - he just seemed unable to catch their meaning. So there was no reason to try to conceal anything and they could talk freely in his presence. At least this made Thorin feel closer to a scientist than a conspirator.

“He won’t murder me,” Thorin replied, and the unhappy, reproachful look he wore made Dwalin shudder in annoyance and shame - to Thorin’s demerit, he knew perfectly well that Dwalin poorly tolerated any accusation, whether open or not, about his loyalty toward Thorin. And Doctor Eijkenskialdi had to keep his friend and assistant under his thumb, now more than ever. “Even if he could free himself, I’m stronger than him,” he added, glancing at the poor thing strapped from head to foot to the slab.   

“You don’t know that,” Dwalin pointed out with a grim frown.

Thorin shook his head. He held no desire to fight with Dwalin now, not when the events of the past night still weighed upon his mind: the storm, the experiment, the despair over his failure; then the sleepless hours that had followed, the haunting sound in the middle of the night, the terrible discovery - at last, the despair over his success.

After they had taken the creature back into the laboratory bound and gagged, Dwalin had convinced him to take a few hours of tormented sleep in his bed upstairs. Thorin had felt ashamed at the sudden relief of being allowed to take his eyes off the creature and trust him into Dwalin’s hands. Though he knew that the creature was his work and no one else’s, he could not help the waves of horror that washed over him again and again, each time he looked at the monster.

So he had let Dwalin take the lead and give him some respite from the initial shock. It had not amounted to much, since Thorin’s sleep had been ridden with nightmares, but at least he had been able to come down later and tend to the creature’s dislocated knee and broken wrist with some competence.

Now it was Dwalin’s turn to get some rest from the strain of the previous night, while Thorin took care of the creature. They had agreed that they could not allow the creature any freedom, and this decision owed both to the need to protect the creature from unwanted and maybe violent attention, and the fear of what  kind of attention the creature could bestow upon others.

Regardless of Thorin’s act of pity in sparing the creature’s life and standing by his decision against Dwalin’s judgement, it was true that they had no idea about the creature’s morality. Thorin feared that he might have none; even if he had been an advocate of Rousseau’s belief in the natural goodness of human beings (and he was not), he would not have been sure that it could apply to the creature. After all, he had wanted to overcome human nature, and there he was, burdened with something that he suspected to be inhuman.

In any case, no scruples had stopped Thorin from using the creature’s fear of the candle light, nor his and Dwalin’s combined strength, to overpower him and drag him back into the laboratory. The creature had fought them out of instinct, but without any cunning or skill, thrashing, kicking, and biting Dwalin’s hand. As if the creature’s ugliness - suddenly evident and unbearable now that he was alive - was not enough to rouse anyone’s repugnance, he had added that unlucky bite to Dwalin’s complaints about keeping a monster alive in the castle.

“If he breaks the restraints and tries to throttle you, call for help, master,” Dwalin said gruffly, looking pointedly at his own bandaged hand before stepping out of the laboratory.

As soon as Dwalin’s steps faded, Thorin fell onto his chair and took his head in his hands. He could hear the creature’s tortuous breathing through his nose (since he was still gagged) and when Thorin raised his blood-shot eyes again he noticed that the creature seemed to struggle against the restraint that kept his head in place, as if he meant to turn toward his creator. _Yes, I’m your creator_ Thorin thought without any pride.

He raised from his seat with some difficulty and forced himself to approach the slab. The creature ceased struggling the very moment he set eyes on Thorin.

Only then did Thorin speak, his voice bitter and hopeless:

“You’ll haunt me forever, won’t you?”

 

*

 

Dwalin was crossing the courtyard when he noticed two of the servants standing by the entrance to the stables (now empty except for the master’s stallion, a chestnut pack-horse, and a mule). The servants were talking with their heads close, stealing glances at the tower from time to time. Dwalin immediately changed his path so as to collide with the gathering. As soon as the servants noticed him marching straight toward them, they stopped talking and seemed willing to flee - they did not though, as they probably knew that Dwalin would not let them walk away so easily if he took it into his mind to speak to them. So they waited like trapped mice; Bofur, the younger of the two, took off his cap.

Both the servants bowed stiffly in Dwalin’s direction, but they exchanged a short glance before Bofur spoke. Not only was Bofur the most outspoken and unceremonious of the servants at Ered Luin, but Bifur seldom talked at all and never in German or Hungarian, nor any other common language spoken around here; only in Khuzdul, the vernacular language of the people like Thorin and Dwalin himself - a dialect that did not really belong anywhere anymore, except with a few surviving Khazâd speakers.

Apparently an old battle-wound to Bifur’s head had erased all memories and skill for any other language from his mind. Dwalin had been much inclined to consider it some ruse, but Thorin said that such things could happen to the human brain - and this being his opinion as a doctor and as a master, Bifur remained with them and even won a better position among the servants. _There will always be some use for an almost mute servant_ , Thorin was pleased to remark.

“What happened, mister Dwalin, sir?” Bofur asked him, crumpling his cap in his hands. He was clearly nervous, but his eyes were alight with curiosity, though mingled with some fright. Not even Dwalin’s stony expression seemed to affect him enough to keep him silent. “My cousin and I were wondering what it was. Last night I thought it a bad dream, but then this morning...” he shook his head. “We heard...”

“What did you hear?” Dwalin interrupted him brusquely.

He cared not for feigning any ignorance and surprise, but he did care a good deal for impressing upon the servants’ mind that they were treading upon dangerous ground. If Bofur did not look too put-off by the interruption, one sharp glance from his cousin Bifur seemed enough to restrain him.

“Oh, almost nothing really,” Bofur muttered, still fiddling with his cap. Then he licked his mouth under his thick moustache and brazenly added: “ _Screams_.”

Bifur frowned, but then he looked at Dwalin, waiting for an explanation. Thorin had given Dwalin instructions regarding what story he should tell, but he felt uneasy about it, though he had been the one to draw Thorin’s attention to the problem of dealing with what the servants might have heard and what they might hear in the following days. Such precautions suggested that the monster was going to stay alive longer, and not swiftly dealt with as Dwalin had suggested.

“The master has taken a new patient,” he announced at last, a little morosely.

The servants did not appear to notice his tone though, since the news was too unexpected to fail to surprise them. Even Bifur let out an exclamation of wonder, while Bofur hit his knee with his cap.

“That’s a piece of news if ever I heard one!” he exclaimed, a broad grin splitting his face in two. “That’s good, very good. God knows the castle needs new patients,” he continued, actually winking, “with all that paint peeling off the walls, the roof falling on our heads, the cost of meat now that the master don’t go hunting no more...a new patient for Doctor Eijkenskialdi,” Bofur repeated, as proud as if he had found that patient himself.  “...didn’t seem him, the patient, though,” he added a moment later, throwing a side-glance at Dwalin.

“He arrived in the middle of the night,” Dwalin answered.

“Travelling in that storm?” Bofur whistled. “Foolish if you ask me. You’d think he would show his face around, unless the storm beat him pretty hard. He’s a sir, isn’t he? No pretty lady for the master yet?”

For a moment Dwalin contemplated the possibility of getting furious over Bofur’s insolent remark, but one glance at the servant made it very clear to him that behind Bofur’s cheek lay a concrete worry counterbalanced by as concrete a hope. The master’s marriage to some girl with a considerable dowry - a widow, an heiress, whatever it took - would represent a future for Ered Luin and for its servants as well, rather than the gnawing fear of being dismissed. Yet Dwalin suspected that it might be a fool’s hope.

He was not only concerned about Thorin’s...taste for men - he had known about it for years, though Thorin still thought that he had been hiding his preferences with great care and ability, _arrogant prick that he is_. If only Thorin knew how well Dwalin had guarded that shame of his, he would not doubt his loyalty anymore.

Yet marriages were seldom about desires (actually it was preferable that they were not), so Thorin’s inclinations might not damage his chances of marrying well; on the other hand his obsession for science, besides being hardly a winning conversational topic in society, had turned Thorin into a kind of hermit, entirely devoted to his experiments like a priest to his cross.

“This man, this patient,” Dwalin began, “is very sick. He was brought here in a great hurry, that’s why he came so late at night. The master didn’t deem it necessary to wake you up, _my_ assistance was enough,” he remarked with some pride. “Mind you, the patient is contagious. So keep away from the tower, where he’s lodged.”

“The tower?” Bofur repeated with a shudder. “But the tower...”

“What?”

“Master Thorin works there...” he mumbled, cowering a little under Dwalin’s glare.

Bofur had clearly meant to say something else about the tower - about the strange noises and smells that came from it or the mysterious crates that went in, but he dare not, as if he feared the answer to the mystery of the master’s business in the tower more than Dwalin’s bullying.

“Just keep away,” Dwalin ordered, turning his back to suggest that the conversation was over.

“Mister Dwalin sir,” Bofur chirped, even as Bifur grabbed his arm to drag him back into the stables. “What’s wrong with the patient? Is it fever? Amputation? _Incineration_?”

“More than that,” Dwalin growled.

He pointedly waited to see the servants get back inside and he noticed Bifur’s gesture of annoyance at his cousin - apparently a reproach for having spoken too much. Whether this meant that Bifur was more inclined to leave the matter rest, or that he meant to investigate it with more discretion, Dwalin did not know. But keeping a monster in the castle, even with few servants still working there, was madness.

“More than that,” he repeated to himself, while the first drops of another round of rain started to fall. “ _Death_ , that’s what’s wrong with him.”

 

*

 

 _Left wrist: not broken, only badly sprained with consequent loss of some function. Ice reduced the swelling and the pain; bandages applied, but it needs rest. Expected healing time: three to five days_.

 

“But it will take more if you keep struggling like that,” Thorin sighed, putting the quill down beside his notebook.

He was trying to record the creature’s state, limb by limb, with as much hope to do some good to the poor beast as to cool his own mind, setting before himself a routine task requiring skill and precision, but no moral stance. As long as Thorin treated the creature like a patient (though the strangest he had ever had), he could put aside the other issues.

Yet it was not entirely an easy task, since it kept reminding Thorin that he did not know what would become of the creature in three, five days from now, nor how his body would react to any of the common treatments.

Truth was that Thorin’s knowledge and experience did not encompass the whole mystery of the creature’s birth. He had supposed that a certain reaction, fuelled by the great amount of electricity from the storm and channelled by the apparatus he had created, would give life to his creature; but _how_ had it happened, and _why_ , he did not know. Neither did he know how that body would function from now on.

For all his arrogant belief in his theories and his rigorous, inexorable method of work, Thorin now felt how deeply ignorant he was about everything concerning this creature, and no scholarly recording could compensate for this bewilderment.

He turned back to the slab, once again noticing how much calmer the creature was as soon as he looked at him. _Like a chick following his mother hen_ , Thorin thought with dry humour. It probably had something to do with the fact that the creature had met but two other living beings, and Dwalin had not been gentle with him. Neither had Thorin, but the comparison was in his favour. Besides, he had been working to alleviate the creature’s pain and that apparently meant something even to a monster.

“Now let me tend to these burns,” Thorin mumbled, while he coated two of his fingers with an ointment he had prepared himself with beeswax.

Despite the fact that he had already treated a great number of burns on the creature’s body in the same way, the creature flinched under his touch and showed his teeth, but without any confidence, as if his instinct conflicted with some other thought.

Thorin had learnt that his voice offered a useful distraction to the creature, so he spoke again:

“Most burns are located close to the wrist, impossible to count them on the forearm. No infection in progress for the moment. I’m going to apply a layer of ointment, then wrap the whole forearm in fresh bandages.”

He had to loosen the leather strap that held the creature’s wrist in order to cover his forearm in ointment, and still the creature hissed and shuddered, at least until the coolness of the ointment gave him some relief. Then the tremors subsided, but the creature’s eyes were still uneasy.

Whether it was human conscience or animal instinct, the creature knew that he was at the mercy of others and that was enough to keep him in a state of fright. The metal manacles that had secured him to the slab last night, but also conveyed the current through his body, had been replaced by leather straps around his wrists, ankles, chest, torso, and forehead. Leather was more yielding than metal and therefore less painful; besides, medical treatments often required the patient to be restrained some way or another, so Thorin’s mind did not dwell too much on the subject, nor was he tempted to free the creature.

“There, almost done,” he muttered, adjusting the bandage and tying it at the elbow.

Then he went back to his book, where he scribbled another note about what he had done, in much the same wording he had used to announce his intentions earlier. While the recordings would help him keep track of the creature’s state and thus discover more about his healing process, speaking his observations aloud just lulled both the creature and Thorin into a less uncomfortable mood.

Not that Thorin had ever been one to waste words or indulge in idle chatter, but talking helped him to focus on the facts. Listing damage, treatments, dangers...it was the doctor stepping forward and the scientist backing away with his doubts and his horror.

Yet doctor and scientist would meet again as soon as he started to detail the scars in his notebook - no, not scars... _stitching_ , it was his own stitching that marked all of the creature’s body. Maybe it would turn into ghastly scars, if that body possessed the ability to regenerate itself like any living human body does up to a certain point, or maybe it would not and the stitches would remain this evident and shocking.

One way or another, Thorin would always be reminded of how he had created that body - from torn pieces, the same way he used to make puppets for his nephews in another life.

“A long stitched cut high on the forehead,” Thorin forced himself to say, his voice suddenly raw with the memory that had sprung on him, like a sly old beast that had been waiting in the dark caverns of his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then wilfully set them upon the stitching on the creature’s forehead.

He remembered that he had been determined not to ruin or shave those brownish curls, because he had found the sight reassuring while he and Dwalin had been lifting the corpse from its fresh grave. It now seemed a stupid concern, a misplaced vanity when the creature was so ugly.

“The chest presents another long stitch, running from the base of the throat to the navel. It’s clean and it appears not to give any pain, despite the fact that it’s the longest cut performed,” he recited, while his fingers tapped slightly on the stitching and his eyes checked the creature’s reaction. He looked quite annoyed, but not in pain. Even the hissing had stopped, replaced by small grunts from time to time.

Thorin wrote a few lines in his notebook, including information about the other scar on the back that he could not see, but knew to run along the spine. The inventory went on - observing, sometimes touching, always writing down - until Thorin felt that he had included everything, from head to feet.

He had to admit to himself that the creature was not in any worse condition than many soldiers when they were sent home to their families. Scars, deformities, paleness were common among veterans and survivors; sometimes they clashed with the young age of the soldiers, like the smallness and youthfulness of the creature’s body looked ill-fitted to sport such flaws.

The curly-haired man whose corpse they had stolen the very night after his burial had been twenty-five at the time of his death. The brain was that of a slightly older man, over-thirty. Thorin did not remember much about the other parts, but they were all between eighteen and thirty-five.

But obviously the creature was but ten hours old.

“Are you hungry?” Thorin asked, looking at the creature’s face finding only a blank stare.

He had been giving the creature a little water at short intervals and, despite some initial difficulty with swallowing, it had worked. There had also been some urine, that Thorin had collected for further analysis. Then he had cleaned the creature’s groin with a wet cloth, barely suppressing a tingle of pride at the idea that his creature could manage to drink and urinate, a sign that not only had he come to life, but he seemed quite willing to stay alive. _Good boy_ he had praised him, like a dog that had performed some trick.

 _Resilient_ , Thorin thought again, while he watched how the creature had got the hang of drinking out of the small cup Thorin brought to his mouth.

“Enough, enough,” he reproached the creature, when he got a little too greedy and water trickled down his chalk-white chin and neck. Thorin took the cup away, ignoring the noise of disappointment that the creature gave. “I can’t feed you like this.”

He needed to give the creature some freedom, otherwise he would choke on his food. Dwalin would not approve and Thorin himself felt uneasy about it, but he saw no other solution. Of course, he could leave the creature without any food or try to feed him while he was strapped to the slab, but the inventory of wounds had reawakened Thorin’s pity along with the awareness of his responsibility for the creature’s miserable existence.  

As a form of precaution Thorin secured another pair of leather manacles to the creature’s wrists, taking care that they were not too tight but that he could not free himself. Then he linked them to a longer chain and finally attached the chain to a ring bolted to the stone floor. Only then did Thorin untie the straps around the creature’s chest and forehead, then his wrists.

The creature remained still, only his eyes flickered from Thorin to the room and back again, and his fingers flexed slightly, as if testing the new constrictions. Thorin moved behind the creature’s head, grabbing him by the bare shoulders and lifting him into a sitting position. There was some weak struggling on the creature’s part, justified by the surprise and the pain that accompanied the manoeuvre, but he did let Thorin handle him at his pleasure.

“Now, what am I supposed to give to you?” Thorin mumbled, while he noticed with some displeasure that the creature sat with his back hunched, his shoulders tensely curved, and his head low. Just like a dog waiting for a beating. “I haven’t beaten you so far, have I?” Thorin snapped with some irritation.

Then he remembered that keeping the creature in fear of him was a good plan. Fear was, after all, the great ruler of the _Kaiserthum_ , the many-headed monster that had swallowed the Khazâd people - _Thorin’s people_ \- either smashing them, scattering them, or enlisting them to fight its wars.

The creature winced at Thorin’s stern tone and the chains rattled when he tried to make himself smaller.

“Stop it,” Thorin grumbled, hardly gentler.

He was holding a loaf of bread Dwalin had taken from the pantry; the crust was hard and coarse under Thorin’s finger - the cook had probably baked it a couple of days ago. Bombur was a fine cook as far as the local standards went, but he had to deal with meagre and irregular provisions, so his skills withered and the bread grew stale.

“I’ll give you bread doused in milk,” Thorin decided, looking at the creature’s small mouth.

He knew that he had good teeth (surprisingly the young farmer had managed to keep all his teeth to the day of his death, and they were tolerably white and regularly shaped), but could not guess how his throat and his stomach would react to food.

“I must wean you,” Thorin continued. “Like one must do with children.”

He had not been there at the time of Fíli’s weaning, because he had been busy with his medical studies in Wien. But he had been around when the time for Kíli’s weaning had come. Sometimes his sister would let him hold her youngest and feed him some apple; Thorin would dig an apple with a silver spoon, then bring the grated fruit to Kíli’s tiny mouth.

“Open your mouth,” Thorin asked, raising a small piece of bread he had softened in cold milk. The creature did nothing, just stared at Thorin’s hand. “Come on. _Open_ ,” he ordered again, but to no avail.

There was no sign that the creature understood any of his words. Keeping his eyes trained on the creature’s face, so as to anticipate any sudden movement that could result in Thorin’s fingers being bitten, he put his free hand on the creature’s face. It was cold, but not unnaturally so - the creature was naked and there was no fire in the laboratory, it was not surprising that his cheeks felt so frozen. The skin was somehow too rigid though; he pinched it, wondering if it was sensitive - it was, at least a little, because the creature gave a protesting snort and tried to turn his head away. Yet Thorin gripped his face, his large hand easily enclosing chin and cheek until the creature gave in and held his gaze.

“Good boy,” Thorin repeated distractedly. “Now, your mouth. You weren’t so difficult about the water, it’s quite the same.”

He had to press his thumb and index finger around the creature’s mouth, squeezing until the lips parted and he could thrust a small piece of bread inside. Thorin noticed something akin to defiance in the creature’s eyes, but was fast enough to press the palm of his hand over his mouth, so that the creature could not spit the bread out. At the corner of his eye Thorin saw the creature’s throat work to swallow the morsel. He took away his hand.

And then something unexpected happened - the creature’s face crinkled a little, then his nose twitched as if he was very annoyed with Thorin yet a little too proud to speak his complaints aloud. It was such a preposterous expression for the creature to wear, when he was so ugly and so naked, half-tied with chains and leather manacles, his skin blotched with yellowish ointment, and a drop of milk trembling at the corner of his mouth.

Thorin, against all odds, laughed. It was a strained, nervous sound, but it retained some humour.

“You’re a little brat, aren’t you?” Thorin mused, studying the creature’s expression more attentively.

But the fussy expression had already been washed away, replaced by the previous dullness. The creature just opened his mouth, like a baby bird waiting for a worm. Thorin soaked more bread in the mug of milk and fed the creature small bites.

At the beginning the creature did not really chew anything. He just sucked the bread into his mouth, lips leaving a wet trail on Thorin’s fingers - _warm breath_ , Thorin noticed with a shudder. The creature worked the bread with his tongue, sometimes leaving his mouth hanging open, sometimes closing it and pushing his tongue against his cheeks. After some time, he swallowed. But when half the bread was gone, he started using his teeth as well. Not too much, since the bread was tender with milk anyway and the monster probably still felt the consequences of the piece of wood he had kept in his mouth for so long last night. Yet he seemed to be able to grasp the concept of chewing.

Thorin felt some relief at the idea that it had not been necessary to show the creature how it was done. He would not have liked to set himself as an example to a monster, feeling the terrible eyes upon him, showing how his body worked to reveal its secrets to this frightening stranger.

He looked at the creature now, while he steadily chewed on the last morsel. He was small, but the people around there were usually so - little folks that tended to grow round and soft if they could achieve some comfort; they had not the strong built of Khazâd, nor were they so hairy. Their children were often born with fair skin and light hair, but most of the adults had brown hair and brown eyes, and they never grew very tall. In Thorin’s eyes, the creature was no bigger than a boy - while he sat on the slab, with milk and bread on his lips, the white skin mottled, bruised, thickened with scars and stitching like the strangest coat, the curls rumpled and dirty, the creature looked like a malignant spirit of the forest.

 _How can he be alive?_ Thorin had declared him dead. There was something utterly disturbing about the thought that in the end the creature had not been brought to life by Thorin - that attempt had failed, as Thorin himself had recorded in his diary. The creature had come back a second time, alone in the laboratory, with no help. Was he still Eijkenskialdi's creature then? Or was he his own creature?

Perturbed by both alternatives, Thorin felt his mind waver under the assault of superstitions he had not known he shared, of fears he had thought forgotten like childhood toys. What if the creature’s existence was not the masterwork of science, but an old evil from a tale of terror made flesh?

“Apparently I can’t leave you alone without you trying to let him bite your fingers off,” Dwalin grunted as he entered the laboratory and took in what was happening.

Thorin felt his fingers still smeared with dunked bread and milk, and cleaned them hastily with a cloth.

“He’s useless tied to this slab,” he pointed out, deliberately ignoring Dwalin’s words. Yet he did nothing when his assistant double-checked all the restraints and gave a complimentary tug of the chain. The creature yelped. “We’ll put him in the adjoining chamber we used as a storeroom.”

“I suppose you mean to put him there _alive_ ,” Dwalin replied with a grimace.

“The door can be closed with a key, can’t it?” Thorin asked, still glaring at Dwalin. When his assistant nodded, he went on. “He must have a cot, a pot, some straw, and clean water. There are no windows and the door is sturdy enough. A ring can be fixed to the wall and a chain attached to it.”

“Must we go through all this pain for a monster, Master Thorin? For he is a monster,” Dwalin insisted. “And if he isn’t, what is he then?”

Thorin looked at the creature. His voice was barely more than a whisper when he admitted:

“I don’t know yet.”


	3. More

_[excerpt from the diary of Doctor Thorin Eijkenskialdi]_

_October 7th, 18--_

_I have not been constant with my entries._

_I have barely written anything this last couple of weeks and, though my notebooks are filled with my daily observations, those annotations can barely encompass recent events. I find some relief in the precision of the medical language that allows me to describe his state in details as I would with a common patient; yet nothing is common about him, so I feel the need to pour onto the page some of the thoughts that have been troubling me._

_It is amusing that I find myself resorting to writing, when I have never shown any flair for it. I remember my sister and my father complaining about the lack of letters on my part when I studied in Wien. Nowadays I turn to writing because I dare not share my worries with Dwalin, lest they sharpen his resolve to oppose my authority on the matter - and Dwalin is the only one left at my side._

_Yet I can hardly find any time to write at all, even at night. He absorbs most of my attention and energies, in so many aspects he is still no different from a baby. Dwalin performs part of the chores, but he likes dealing with the creature even less than I do. Besides, he has no medical training, so he can only assist me in some of my daily tasks. Thus I’m forced to set my eyes upon him every day. I wonder if I’ll ever become accustomed to the sight of him, and the thought is unnerving; I would rather keep being unpleasantly surprised by his repulsive look than find it familiar._

_He’s now capable of drinking and eating almost by himself, especially if he has already been fed the same food before - otherwise he seems to forget how he’s supposed to deal with his daily ration. I suspect that there’s some pretension about it; for being an entirely new being, he’s incredibly wary of novelty, to the point of fussiness._

_Once he has been coaxed into eating something new, though, he reveals a great appetite. Feeding him has become increasingly difficult, for the more the servants are busy with preparing his meals, the more they gossip about him. Sometimes I give him something from my own plate when I have my meals brought to my rooms. However he seems to have a preference for vegetables and fruits, and contents himself with little amounts of meat - it spares me the cook’s complaints about the price of meat._

_He still eats with his hands, because we agreed that he can’t be trusted with a knife or even a fork. His way of eating has grown considerably less sloppy though: he likes to eat slowly, though he always seems put-off by finding that the food in his plate has cooled in the meanwhile. I tried to give him a small napkin to see what he would do with it. He has quickly worked it out his function and now he almost refuses to eat if he cannot have some cloth to clean his mouth and his hands._

_He has some instinct for cleanliness, like a cat. Teaching him how to take care of the baser functions of his body was quite easy compared to other matters. For example, he still retains his horror for any kind of flame, so that we cannot have a fire in the laboratory without him growing hysterical, nor can I approach him with a candle or even a lighted match. To no avail I tried to explain to him that he must not fear a simple candle, but at least this resolves the quarrel between Dwalin and me about the opportunity of providing the cell with a lamp. Since the creature fears fire more than darkness, he still spends his nights without any light._

_Clothes are a problem. He’s too small to wear anything of mine or Dwalin’s; the servants could adapt some old clothes or purchase simple attire at the village, but either solution would set their talk aflame, for it would suggest that the mysterious patient brought no clothes with him, while Dwalin is set on suggesting that I am taking care of the son of a wealthy man from Pest._

_So the creature wears old sacks. At the beginning he was loathe of putting his head through the hole and, when I forced him to put the damned thing on, he kicked me out of panic. He probably thought that the tunic was a new kind of restraint, something that he still seems to consider a great offence; each time we put him back into the cell and fix the chain to his ankle, his face darkens. Sometimes his bad mood lasts till the next time I open the door to his cell._

_If he’s a child in many regards, he’s a restive, spiteful child. He’s apparently able to discern patterns in our behaviour, and use this knowledge to his advantage - though it’s a poor advantage indeed, since it only helps him discover new ways to make mine or Dwalin’s time with him more miserable._

_For example, I fear he discovered that I dislike feeding him, because I find the feeling of his mouth upon my fingers repulsive. I find it filthier than any other care I perform, and he must have noticed it. When he feels particularly annoyed with me, he pretends not to know how to eat by himself and refuses to open his mouth for the spoon, forcing me to feed him with my hands. I think that he doesn’t like it either, for he’s got some sort of pride in doing things by himself and eating at his own, ordinate pace, but he goes as far as to offend his own sensibilities as long as he can hurt mine. He even takes care to mouth at my fingers and leave his spit upon my hand._

_~~I must confess that today I lost my patience with him, when he performed this trick again. I took him by his hair and then pushed three of my fingers inside his mouth, pressing them down on his tongue. Not enough to choke him nor to make him nauseous, but enough to humiliate and overpower him. I kept my fingers there for a long time, while he was on his knees before me. I hated him then, and he hated me.~~ _

_~~Dwalin discovered us in that position. He said nothing then, but later he remarked that it would have been simpler to let him starve a day or two if I wanted to teach him a lesson. I suppose he’s right, but I don’t know what came over me. I fear that I enjoyed the sense of power over him, and even the disgust I felt for him and myself together. I realise now that he could have bitten me, but he didn’t.~~ _

_I wonder how much he understands of what’s going on._

_I don’t understand much myself. For instance, I don’t know whether he’s learning or remembering. If he’s learning, he’s too quick; if he’s remembering, he’s too slow. But can the brain retain some information after death? Some think that we are born with an instinctive knowledge of the world, to help us deal with it, but was he really born?_

_He reminds me of a puppy who learns very quickly how to fend for himself. I said something about it to Dwalin and he pointed out that such a puppy swiftly develops a taste for blood._

_When I write that he learns quickly, I must add that he doesn’t learn quickly enough. He still needs our continuous assistance and his movements are awkward (he doesn’t exercise enough, it may take less time to have him walking properly if I could take him out to the courtyard or around the house); he doesn’t talk and, except for the malice shown by his little pranks, I don’t have any proof of his intelligence or conscience._

_His dependency makes it more difficult to manage him. At the same time I dread the time when he may become less reliant upon us than he is now; then, his tricks may grow more dangerous._

_I must take my rest now. I’m under the appalling impression that even if I’m in my rooms with my head upon my pillow, I’m always in the cell with him._

*

 

“Haven’t you anything better to do than throw sawdust into my dough?”

The motion of the small carving knife stopped, as Bofur raised his eyes.

“It couldn’t make the bread harder to chew,” he replied with some amusement. He made to resume his work with the knife when the ladle hit him on his head and the tool slipped from his fingers, ending up under the table. “Blimey, I cut his nose away,” Bofur protested, looking at the wooden figurine he was carving and massaging his forehead at the same time.

“The fault is in the flour,” Bombur grumbled, putting down the offending ladle to pick up his kneading again. “If we could have better flour and I could bake every day, we’d have better bread.”

“Warm bread every day, meat pies, and the ale they serve at the Green Dragon by the river,” Bofur listed, staring dreamily at the low, blackened ceiling of the kitchen. Bombur snorted.

“With the flood last month, all the ale in the Green Dragon must have been watered down.”

The door looking onto the courtyard opened and Bifur came in, water dripping from his clothes and his hair. He had been out to fix a few wooden boards over a broken window on the ground floor. Now, half blind for the rain in his eyes, he staggered toward the fire, leaving a trail of mud behind him.

“First sawdust, then water!” Bombur protested, when drops of rain fell too near his dough. “It’s hardly surprising that my bread doesn’t appeal to your fine taste.”

“Oh, let the poor man get closer to the fire!” Bofur exclaimed, while he kicked a stool toward Bifur.

His cousin grabbed it and nodded his gratitude. He had already stripped off his overcoat and was now hanging it by the fire.

“Now the kitchen will smell of your roasted coat,” Bombur complained.

Bifur looked at him, a little baffled by the cook’s mood; Bombur sighed, left the dough be, and hung the coat himself, spreading it so that it would be dry faster and without any danger of catching fire. Then he cleaned his hands and resumed his work.

“Don’t be so hard on us, brother,” Bofur pleaded with Bombur, while Bifur was warming himself at the hearth. “You know the kitchen is the only place where a fire is allowed even at night. It’s not surprising that we all end up here when you’re baking. I bet that soon enough even the lad will join us.”

“Ori?” Bifur asked. He shrugged.

“Too tired to leave his bed,” Bofur suggested, accustomed as he was to interpreting and developing Bifur’s few words. “He’s too soft for a servant.”

“He’s just young,” Bombur replied. “Maybe he’ll become a good kitchen help.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Bofur grinned, fiddling with his wooden figurine and the knife he had just recovered from under the table. “You’d take a few naps by the fire while he slaves for you...but he won’t end up as a kitchen help. The master took him in because Ori’s older brother was so keen on the idea that the lad would work for the Durin family.”

“What family?” Bombur asked, frowning. “It’s just Master Thorin now. If lady Dís had been around, it would have been different, but...”

“The master could still marry” Bofur protested. “He’s not old after all,” he mumbled, feeling that Thorin’s charms grossly amounted to his still marriageable age, and that he could not bring himself to declare the master handsome or nice.

_Clever_ , yes, everybody used to say that about the master when he was studying in Wien and was only a boy, like Bofur was at the time. But he had not really done anything with his learning, since he had not become a famous doctor in the capital; he had left Wien for Erebor and there he had turned up badly like all Durins did. Bofur could not really put his finger on what _badly_ meant in practice, but he just knew that Thorin Eijkenskialdi was not the sort of master he could boast about with the people of Hobbitburg and Mihályodú.

Once Bofur had asked a maid at the Green Dragon what she thought of his Master Thorin - whether he was good looking or not, for he could not judge. The silly girl had laughed and said that she would not take the finest gold to lay in Doctor Eijkenskialdi’s bed, because he gave her the creeps. Bofur, disappointed, had pulled at the tresses of the maid and made her cry; later he had felt ashamed for having questioned her - what business had a maid with the noble blood of the house of Durin?

Yet Bofur knew that the master’s look was very different from the sort of appearance ladies preferred in a gentleman. In fact he was a Khazâd man who felt strongly about the traditions of his people - even if Master Thorin kept his beard short and well-cut, his hair was long and braided, _like a savage’s_ the Green Dragon maid had said spitefully.   

Speaking of _nice_ , well, there were worse masters around, but a servant’s experience in this regard was no help to Bofur’s reasoning about his master’s marriage perspectives.

“I can’t understand why Dori sent his young brother here, when he’s got such a good business in town,” Bombur was saying. “His shop does very well, everybody says that. He should have kept his young brother with him, rather than convince the master that he would need some help while Balin is away in Wien.”

“Oh I miss Balin!” Bofur sighed.

“I’m sure Balin doesn’t miss you,” Bombur teased him.

“Why couldn’t his brother Dwalin be sent to Wien?” Bofur mumbled.

“You know very well why not. Balin is the only one who stands a chance of convincing the banks in Wien to give Master Thorin credit. Can you imagine what Dwalin would do with clerks and papers?” Bombur shook his head. “Mister Balin is a sharp old man. He won’t come back empty-handed.”

Bifur huffed from his corner.

“He’s taking his sweet time in Wien, mister Balin is,” Bofur said. “He went away in the Summer...”

“Well, he must play his cards right. He can’t be too nagging or they’ll close their doors in his face. He must get into society, worm his way in, and...and maybe have a little talk with the bankers’ wives, just to grease the gears...”

Bofur listened to Bombur’s description, frowning sceptically. His brother sounded just like someone who had no first-hand experience and was putting together ideas he had picked up here and there - the only grease Bombur was acquainted with was the fat of pigs, cows, and chickens.

But society of the kind Balin would probably meet in Wien used to come to Ered Luin a long time ago, when Bombur was a kitchen aid and Bofur a stable hand; Master Thorin was the _young master_ then, and the Durins came to Ered Luin with their party of friends and allies to hunt across the forest and the mountains.

Ered Luin was a proper hunting lodge then. A few servants lived there all the year round, taking care of the small castle; Bofur remembered those times as a constant waiting for the arrival of the masters, as if the life in Ered Luin revolved around their visits. The servants would keep the house ready most of the time, then the party would come and other servants would arrive from Erebor, and sometimes others would be hired from Hobbitburg (though the Durins always preferred not to mingle with the local people).

For days, sometimes weeks at a time, Ered Luin would be crowded: all the fires lit, meat turning on the spit day and night, the courtyard stained with the blood of pheasants, deer, boars, once or twice a bear. Then the party would leave and the servants would clean and scrub, cover furniture and close doors, and they would wait for the next party.

Sometimes the Durins did not come at all (as it happened with increasing frequency in master Thráin’s last years) and Ered Luin languished in boredom. The servants called themselves fortunate when they saw their masters twice a year. Even if the parties meant an increase in workload for everyone, the servants loved the excitement and the prestige that accompanied the Durins, and they would talk about their last visit for months. They would try to guess the value of clothes and jewels worn at dinner, they would discuss every hint of quarrel or alliance between the family members, they would wonder about the identity and power of the guests, and sometimes buy themselves a treat or two with the generous tips that befell them.

But the time had come when Ered Luin had been forgotten. Some said that it had become unfashionable, others that the Durins could no longer spend so much money travelling between their residences and that they no longer left Erebor, _Ereburg_ like the Germans called the castle and the town grown around it. _The town of the Khazâd_ , Bofur thought dreamily...

But it had all come to nothing in the end, like Master Thorin’s education.

“Mister Glóin should help us,” Bofur commented, cutting whatever Bombur was saying short.

Probably his brother and Bifur had been talking about something else - the damned weather or the draw of the chimney - since they looked at him in surprise. He bit the inside of his cheek before carrying on:

“He’s the master’s cousin, isn’t he? And Balin’s first cousin. And a banker. He _must_ help. Master Thorin lived in his house in Wien when he was studying to become a doctor. And wasn’t it mister Glóin’s oldest brother, Doctor Groinsonur, that persuaded old master Thrór that there was nothing wrong with Master Thorin becoming a doctor?”

“Aye, aye,” Bombur nodded. “It was Óin Groinsonur, the great doctor. When we Khazâd were welcomed at the _Kaiserhof_ , Doctor Groinsonur treated the _Kaiser_ ’s nephews.”

“The cousins, not the nephews,” Bofur corrected.

“Don’t matter,” Bombur shrugged. “You can bet master Thrór thought that it would be another way to push the young master right under the _Kaiser_ ’s nose, but he didn’t like it, oh no! He had wanted a general, not a medical student.”

“But master Thráin rather liked it,” Bofur interrupted. All three of them knew the family history quite well, and they repeated it from time to time to one another, quarrelling over the same details from the start. It was like polishing the old silver and remarking about its flaws all over again. “Master Thráin liked the idea that his heir would not lose an eye and a piece of his nose on the battlefield, like he had done when he had served under the _Kaiser_.”

“Frerin,” Bifur grunted.

“Oh yes, in the end master Thrór did get a soldier,” Bombur acknowledged. “But Master Frerin was cut out for the soldier life. A dashing young officer, wasn’t he? A good boy, really good boy,” he murmured. “He did all he could so that his brother Thorin would serve under his command, when the order arrived for all the able Khazâd men to take arms against the enemies of the Empire. Yes, poor Master Frerin did his best to have as many Khazâd as possible in his battalion, so that he could take care of them, and protect them from the other soldiers and commanders.”

“So they sent them all to the slaughter,” Bofur grunted. “An entire battalion, swept away like this.”

He made a motion with his hands, brushing away some flour from the table. Bombur shuddered.

“We Khazâd are not loved,” he said quietly. “But Master Thorin survived.”

“To find that his grandfather and father stood accused of conspiracy against the _Kaiserthum_ , and of trading with the enemy. Not a good reward for crawling out of that bloody pit.”

“Was it true at least? That the Durins had changed their colours?”

Bifur slapped his hand against the mantelpiece. He said something quickly, in his thick Khuzdul.

“Maybe, it wasn’t so easy to tell who was the enemy then,” Bofur translated, for Bombur was not so good with the language. “There were neighbours that had become enemies overnight. Maybe the masters were tired of the increasingly irrational demands that came from the imperial officers.”

“ _Uslukh_ ,” Bifur hissed.

“What?”

“It’s his new word for the empire - means _dragon_ in our language. Good idea, isn’t it?” Bofur grinned. “Big, greedy, cruel thing, setting the world afire.”

“That’s dangerous talk,” Bombur reproached them.

Bofur shook his head. He felt his blood boil in his veins at the thought of how much had been taken away from them - the Durins, and the Khazâd. Erebor burnt, master Thrór shot by a firing squad, master Thráin gone mad in prison, and then they had come again to take Master Thorin and the young masters to another battlefield.

It was not so surprising, after all, that Master Thorin had done nothing with his Wien education. Bofur felt a little ashamed at having been so annoyed with the master’s indifference to the matters of the house. He was a man who had lost much, nearly everything; most things must look trifling to such a man.   

“However it’s true that mister Glóin should help if things look better for him than they do for us,” Bombur admitted after a long silence. “But who knows? These things with money are complicated...”

“How could you know when all you’ve ever managed is the little money for the supplies?” Bofur teased him, swallowing his bitterness.

“At least I’m trusted with some money, while you loiter around leaving sawdust everywhere...”

“It’s not my fault if there’s no work to do,” Bofur protested, feeling quite indignant. “The castle falls to pieces, but the master...” he stopped, pity surging again in his chest. “Well, I can’t repair anything without his permission and his money, but I’ll try again tomorrow. He must have much on his mind, with the new patient. At least I’d teach something useful to Ori, rather than just scrubbing horseshit - some reparations and restorations, that’s what he needs to enjoy his time here.”

“Still, Dori was a fool. I don’t know why...” Bombur repeated, but Bifur touched his ear.

This time both Bombur and Bofur understood, but the latter could not helping stating it anyway.

“He thinks that Ori is here to spy on us.”

 

*

 

“It isn’t as if he had any choice!”

The sharp sound of a slap. Then some angry muttering and quick steps fading away. A few moments later Dwalin entered the laboratory. Thorin raised his eyes from his notes and quirked an eyebrow at his assistant.

“What was that?”

“The young servant, Ori,” Dwalin replied, pulling a face. “I caught him loitering about and I called him out on it. He tried to distract me by complaining that his brother sent him here to wait on you, not to work in the stables. I told him that it wasn’t his place to question the work given to him and that he should call himself lucky enough to work at Ered Luin, since you decided to settle here.”

“And he replied that I didn’t have any choice. He’s got some cheek,” Thorin commented, but he did not feel amused by the young man’s temper, and even less by his poking around. He felt trapped enough even without his servants trying to take a look at the mysterious patient lodged in the tower.

“Well, it might be true,” Dwalin replied, misunderstanding Thorin’s brooding, “but he’ll watch his tongue next time if he isn’t fond of being slapped. And if his face when I hit him was anything to go by, he isn’t.”

“I had forgotten about him” Thorin said suddenly. Dwalin’s smugness turned into alarm and he sucked a little breath between his teeth. Thorin gave him a little smirk. “Don’t look like that. I remember Ori’s brother coming here and begging me to employ him. I suppose Dori hopes Ori may replace Balin in the management of my finances one day.”

“The lad’s apparently good with figures,” Dwalin grumbled, knowing well that he could not say the same for himself.

“But I haven’t given any thought to this young man of late,” Thorin continued. Then he stole a look at the door of the cell. “I have much on my mind,” he admitted, growing thoughtful again. He felt, in truth, close to sickness and he expected to break into a nervous fever at any moment. “Shall we proceed?” he asked, trying to feign indifference.

“I could do it myself,” Dwalin offered gruffly.

Thorin smiled weakly at that, both grateful and loath of Dwalin’s pity.

“No, I want to feed him. You know, I think that there may be some healing process going on for some of the smaller cuts,” he added, his fingers leafing through the pages of his notebook.

“Still ugly,” Dwalin muttered under his breath.

Thorin pursued his lips, but he could not help a spark of amusement at his assistant’s remark. Dwalin’s down-to-earth approach to the creature - including a good deal of swearing - was a blessing sometimes, because it reduced the creature to an unpleasant patient, stripped of any ghostly aura. Dwalin did not realise that his straightforward, uncompromising opinion strengthened Thorin’s resolve to take care of the creature rather than weakening it. He would have probably bitten his tongue if he had known.

When they opened the door of the cell, they found the creature asleep, burrowed in the woollen blanket Thorin had given him. It was not an unusual picture, since the creature had a liking for lying in his bed for as long as possible, and was always irritable when they woke him up.  

“Get up, you monster,” Dwalin growled, entering the cell.

The creature’s eyes flew open, but he immediately closed them again, pretending to be still asleep. His grip on the woollen blanket tightened, as if he was preparing himself to defend his privilege to it. Dwalin bent down, grasped one corner of the blanket and gave it a harsh tug. A throaty moan followed, then some struggling, but in a few moments the blanket was thrown in a corner and the monster was crouched on the floor. He looked at Dwalin with some malevolence, but Thorin did not feel like blaming him after such a wake-up.

“Come on, dress,” he ordered instead, giving him the sack tunic.

Since the creature kept looking at Dwalin morosely, Thorin pushed the tunic down over his head, ignoring the protesting mewl and the small hands trying to bat him away. He had already noticed that the creature found some pride in performing a few actions by himself - eating, but also dressing and undressing. It did not come to modesty, not yet at least, but it seemed that clothes fascinated the creature. Thorin was not sure if this owed to the creature’s perception of his own ugliness - and the desire to hide as much as possible of his body under the clothes, or rather to the idea that nakedness was a form of punishment (it had been, once or twice).

One way or another, while he looked at the creature smoothing the tunic down his torso and legs, Thorin wondered what he would do with real clothes - trousers and shirts, maybe a pair of shoes. There was the problem of obtaining them, but it could be worth the creature’s reaction.

Dwalin was already securing the manacles to the creature’s ankles.

“Hands,” Thorin said, repeating their morning ritual.

The creature raised them, not looking anywhere but at the floor while Thorin closed the other manacles upon his wrists. Thorin did not know if the creature knew what he was told - he did understand the orders and obeyed them most of the time, but it probably happened out of habit rather than a grasp of the words’ meaning.

When the creature was brought out of the cell and lifted onto the slab with its feet dangling toward the floor, Dwalin busied himself with the weekly cleaning of the cell. It would take a long time, because Dwalin had to work alone and Thorin was firm on the subject - the cleaning must be thorough, the straw and the cot had to be changed, floor and walls scrubbed.

Thorin sat on a high stool and studied the creature’s face.

“How’s it going to be today?” he mused.“Are you going to be good or bad?”    

The creature said nothing, but opened his mouth. Thorin swallowed, his mind instantly running back to yesterday’s distasteful episode: his fingers filling the creature’s mouth, the warm wetness left on his hand, those eyes fixed upon him all the time...it was still fresh in his mind, like a tender wound.

Now the creature’s gaze held some trace of yesterday’s defiance, but also some fright and impatience. He was hungry, as usual when he woke up, and he did not know whether Thorin would feed him or not.

_I am a mystery to him as he is to me_ , Thorin realised with a shudder - it made them equals, but equality with a monster was frightening.

Thorin hastily stood up, marched toward the small cupboard where he always put the creature’s meals, and then returned to the creature with the tray he had requested from the kitchen. He had never provided the creature with such a varied display of food before. Most of his meals had consisted of the easiest, least complicated dishes - rice, soup, mashed vegetables, bread and milk, a little boiled meat. This time there was butter and _túró_ cheese along with fried bread, some ham and the smallest sausage; a bowl of roasted vegetables including peppers, radish, scallion, and cucumber, as well as boiled eggs; there was even a little rice pudding topped with honey.

The creature’s eyes grew very large. Thorin had made sure that there was nothing on the tray that the creature had not tried before, though he had never seen such a variety and abundance.

“You must learn what a proper meal look like,” Thorin remarked, more for his benefit than the creature’s.

No matter what he said to himself, part of him knew that the bountiful breakfast had been prompted by his guilt over what had passed between him and the monster the day before. Yet it was less making amends to the creature than restoring the balance threatened by the episode - in other words, it restored Thorin to civil society and made him feel like more of a forgiving master.

If any of this was evident to the creature, it did not show: the sight of the food seemed to hold too much charm for him to take his eyes away from the tray.

“Come on. Here, the spoon,” Thorin touched the small wooden spoon on the tray, but did not take it up.

The creature did though, throwing only the briefest glance at Thorin as if to assess the situation before closing his fingers around the small handle. He dropped the spoon almost immediately, as if he was surprised by its weight and its feeling - he had never been allowed to keep something in his hands before, not like this. Thorin made to retrieve the spoon, which had fallen into the bowl of vegetables, but the creature gave a little distressed noise so Thorin stopped. The creature picked the spoon up, tightening his fingers with a little too much strength in truth, yet he managed to move the spoon to bring a mouthful of vegetables to his lips. His teeth closed too fast on the wood and then he munched it slightly before popping it out of his mouth, but he did look quite pleased with himself.

The creature went on, taking small morsels as usual, but soon learning to combine this with that and taking a good deal of pleasure in the different tastes he discovered doing so. He forgot to look at Thorin, like he habitually did when confronted with a new task, because he was too absorbed in the pleasure of his meal. Thorin did not really mind it. Actually, he was stricken with the thought that this might be the first time that the creature was behaving with such spontaneity, neither forced nor pretending.

He clearly enjoyed the meal, and his pleasure showed in the rosier hue of the cheeks (a rare phenomenon to be observed in the creature), as well as in the way his breath hitched when he found a new combination of flavours that pleased his tongue. He made some noise, too, that would not be considered polite in society, but was very expressive and sort of amusing - small, breathy groans, and the soft smack of the lips.

There was, in short, a winning candour to the way the creature ate, so that looking upon him did not disagree with Thorin this time.

When the tray was emptied, Thorin did not remove it immediately. The creature was still observing it, as if marvelling at all the things he had eaten. He licked his lips twice or thrice, then with a small sigh he ran his tongue along his fingers, sticky with honey. His tongue gathered a few grains of rice stuck there, and kept lapping and sucking at both hands until they were perfectly clean, if damp. He had, for the first time since he had learnt its use, disregarded the napkin in the pleasure of the feast.   

Only then, with a small tilt of his head, did the creature look at Thorin again. His lips were moist and his eyes narrowed a little, while he knitted his brows together. In a breath, he spoke:

“ _More_.”


	4. Slight Ligaments

_“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”_

 

The smell in the back was as familiar as that of one’s old clothes.

It did not prompt any particular memory, but it belonged there, as reliable and unremarkable as the rising of the fog from the riverbed or the wind whistling through the chimney in the dead of night. The smell though was the work of men: it was grounded coffee and cinnamon, the fragrance of herbs mingled with the strong sweet scent of liqueurs, traces of honey, black pepper, burnt wood, but also whiffs of mouldy cheese and shoe polish.

Ori breathed it in, his fingers tracing lines in the fine flour dust that layered an empty shelf. He was not really listening to the voices in the shop, they were just there, like the smells - details so customary to his life that they felt like variations of the same old tune.

The small silver bell at the entrance rang one last time, then was silent. A few moments later came the grave tolls of the keys being turned in the four complicated locks on the main door; curtains were lowered, chairs and table moved (far softer sounds these, but whether Ori actually heard them or just conjured them up in his mind, it is irrelevant). Steps came closer. Ori straightened his back but at the same time tried to feign an air of nonchalance, as if it was just chance that he found himself here rather than answering a summons.

“Here you are,” Dori said, as soon as he opened the door connecting the shop to the storeroom at the back.

He had barely glanced in Ori’s direction before speaking.

“Here I am,” Ori replied, but in a slightly less matter-of-fact tone - as if he could have been elsewhere, after all.

“Help with this,” Dori ordered, so Ori got to his feet and grabbed one side of the crate. “Today’s delivery,” was the laconic explanation.

Together they moved the crate from the floor to one of the lower shelves. In truth the crate was not so heavy and Ori knew that his older brother, despite his mild appearance, was as strong as a bull. Dori could have easily lifted the crate by himself, but that was hardly the point - the point being that Ori should help with the shop at any time, regardless of the actual need.

Ori found it annoying. He did not mind the work nor the fatigue, but he regretted the constant reminder of his position in the family. He would always remain the youngest brother, like at Ered Luin he was always the newcomer among the other servants, who had known each other for years before his arrival and knew the castle by heart, let alone how boldly they spoke about the master. In Ered Luin like in Hobbitburg, everyone felt entitled to give Ori orders, while his opinions were disregarded, and his qualities overlooked.

To worsen things, part of Ori knew that he _was_ younger and less experienced than his brothers, weaker than Dori, with more scruples than Nori; nor did he have their knack for business. He was bold though, and determined to make his own way in the world.     

“I could do with a cup of tea before going up,” Dori said, sitting down on the stool and putting his hands on his belly.

He clearly meant that Ori should serve him a cup of tea in the back of the shop, before they could climb the small stairs to their private quarters on the first floor, where they would have dinner and then go to bed. This little refreshment at the end of a long day of work was another habit of Dori’s. He kept a couple of sturdy cups in the back, together with a small reserve of tea; he would put the water to boil in an old kettle over the black stove and take his tea among crates, urns, and packages. _Never in the shop_ , Dori had always said, _the shop is for the clients_. Not even when it was closed to the public did Dori cross the line and take his tea inside the shop, where he could have used the same cups, the same stove, the same blends of tea; those were for the shop’s clients, and nothing would convince him that he had a right to such comforts.

When the cup of tea he had requested was set before him, Dori studied Ori with more attention.

“Do you eat enough?” he asked. “You’ll have to wipe your boots better.”

“Yes, I eat enough. And the road was muddy. They could have given me the mule,” Ori muttered.

“Don’t complain. It’s good enough that they let you come.”

He had had to talk to Dwalin about leaving the castle for a couple of days. Ori would have liked to speak with the master himself, but Dwalin had only snorted and forced him to reveal the reason of his request to see Master Thorin. When Ori had finished explaining that his brother had sent word that he wished to see him on family business, Dwalin had told him that he could go - _just like that_.

Ori had felt indignant at the idea that Dwalin had not spoken to the master on the matter, yet it was true that Master Thorin never showed any interest in any of the comings and goings of the house.  

“Well, it’s not like there’s much to do sometimes...” Ori sighed.

“With few servants and an entire castle to run?” Dori argued, knitting his brow.

“I told you how it is,” Ori remarked, a little bored. “There’s no money to run the castle properly, so there’s little to do. And I’m not...” he bit his lower lip, “I have no say in the management of the house. The master never asks for my services.”

“Quite natural, quite natural,” Dori commented, but his mood had soured despite his mellow words. Ori could see that he was disappointed from how he turned the spoon in the cup - a little too violently. “You’re a newcomer, they don’t know you.”

“It’s not just that. The master...doesn’t share his thoughts with any of us, that’s it.”

“It’s his prerogative,” Dori said with a vague smile. “But go on.”

“Nothing, he just doesn’t want me around - he wants _no one_ around. He prefers to do things by himself and we’re all forbidden to enter his laboratory. Except Dwalin, of course, Dwalin is his assistant.”

“But he’s got a new patient, hasn’t he?” Dori inquired. “People in Hobbitburg say so.”

 _Bofur can’t keep his mouth shut_ , Ori thought with annoyance. Yet he did not mind Bofur’s indiscretion for itself - actually, Ori felt that it was natural that folks should turn to gossip since Hobbitburg and the neighbouring villages did not offer much variety in the way of entertainment. What bothered Ori was the fact that Bofur had deprived him of the chance to bring the news of Doctor Eijkenskialdi’s new patient himself, a pleasure Ori had looked forward to.  

“There is a patient,” he admitted with a shrug, as if to suggest that the news was not so interesting after all. Dori made a sign for him to continue though. “Very ill, so none of us are allowed to go anywhere near him. Only the master and Dwalin can enter the tower, where he’s lodged. He never comes out.”

“That’s what people say.”

“ _You_ should tell me what’s going on at Ered Luin then,” Ori pointed out with some bitterness.

At the beginning he had liked the idea of working for Doctor Eijkenskialdi at Ered Luin. He was a bright lad that would have done well for himself in a bigger town, while the neighbourhood lacked in distractions. He naturally craved some change from the routine of running the shop, despite the fact that he did not dislike working there with his older brother - of whom he was inexpressibly fond, after all.

If Dori had not been so apprehensive and kept him on a tight leash, Ori would have probably joined the army or a circus, turned hunter, or travelled East; but his sense of the family obligations was strong enough to keep him here. So he had become a servant at Ered Luin, like his brother wished.

The idea had had its appeal. First of all, it represented a change, though Ered Luin was just three hours by foot from Hobbitburg. Secondly, there was something intriguing about the idea of living in a castle halfway up the mountain, hidden in the forest; Ori was a romantic at heart, and the prospect of such a place captivated his imagination. The third charm was Doctor Eijkenskialdi himself - one could hear many things about his character, and most of them were inconsistent enough to tickle Ori’s curiosity. Besides, Doctor Eijkenskialdi belonged to the house of Durin.

Dori had always deemed it unwise to emphasise their Khazâd descent - it was one of the major points of his endless quarrel with Nori, since the latter preferred to flaunt his blood at every turn, from his look to his habit of swearing in Khuzdul. Ori could see the logic of Dori’s resolve, since Khazâd, like most minorities, were subjected to suspicions, envy, discrimination, and sometimes - somewhere - things had gotten even worse. The people in Hobbitburg knew that Dori and his young brother were neither Hungarian nor German, but it was easier to forget their queerness when they were so polite and unassuming.

Yet, even if Ori had always accepted Dori’s line of conduct, he could not help feeling guilty about his ignorance concerning his own people. Dori never talked about Ereburg and Nori was always far from home, so Ori had no one to talk with about Khazâd. He had hoped that moving to Ered Luin would mean learning more about the culture of his ancestors, because one of the house of Durin would surely feel bound to honour the traditions - Thorin Eijkenskialdi was something akin to royalty by Khazâd standard, while Ori’s family had always been middle class.

And indeed the impression was that in Ered Luin everyone cared more for the past than for the present. They styled their hair and beards in the Khazâd fashion; one of the servants, Bifur, spoke neither Hungarian nor German, only Khuzdul; the house was full of antiquities in the traditional Khazâd design. At first Ori had felt excited and he had even tried to grow a beard - it was a little ridiculous, but he kept it. Yet he was still excluded, like a child with his nose pressed against the glass of a shop window, longing for a treat that was denied to him.

“Some speak of a woman,” Dori said at last, after a long silence - his punishment for Ori’s tone.

“There’s no woman,” Ori replied. “The patient is a man. Well, Dwalin said that. Actually, yes it could be a woman after all, but that would be strange: a woman would like to have her own maid, she couldn’t stay in a house full of men, all alone. But there’s no one.”

“No servants at all?” Dori asked, surprised. “Then the patient is a poor soul. There’s no money in that.”

Ori felt his heart sank a little. It was much the same conclusion the cook had reached after a couple of weeks without any trunk or servant arriving at the castle, yet he had hoped that the master had acquired some wealthy connections thanks to his patient - the patent meagreness of the master’s means was one of Ori’s bitterest disappointments.

“I told you that I take no part in the management of the castle. I have no idea of how much...”

“But you must know, you must learn how much money Thorin Eijkenskialdi has left,” Dori interrupted him, for the first time betraying some impatience.

“It’s not so easy,” Ori muttered. “I hardly ever see the master alone. You don’t know what it’s like with Dwalin around keeping an eye on everything, and it’s all locked up. It’s not as if there are papers and money scattered around.”

“ _Time_. You only need time. You’ll get them to trust you, won’t you?” Dori nodded slowly and patted Ori’s arm. “Especially Master Thorin. You need to win his confidence.”

“I know, you told me. I’ll keep my eyes open,” Ori promised. Then, feeling quite pleased with himself, he added: “Actually there’s something else.”

“Is there?” Dori asked, his gaze suddenly growing more focused.

In the end, Ori had got to talk to the master, despite Dwalin’s interference. It had been Thorin who had sought him out, or so it had looked, since the master had suddenly appeared in the servants’ quarters.

Not only was it unusual, in Ori’s experience at least, for Master Thorin to wander so far from the tower and his own quarters, it was also mortifying that a master had to lower himself to look for his servants, because they were so reduced in number that he could not come upon any of them in other parts of the house. Yet this discomfiting reflection had been replaced by the suspicion that the meeting was not fortuitous, and that the master had looked for Ori and no one else.

Ori had noticed that under the pretension of coolness there was some queer excitement about Master Thorin. It was not fright nor mere impatience; in another man it would have looked like _happiness_ , but in Thorin Eijkenskialdi it rather resembled a sort of furore. His face had shown signs of tiredness, yet his gaze had been sharp and Ori had been under the impression that it was the first time that the master had truly looked at him - with a heavy, inquiring gaze, not without some humour.  

“I have been told that you’ll leave for a couple of days,” had been the master’s opening. His voice was deep, his accent lending it a sober quality that suited the strong, solid build of his body. “Visiting your brother in Hobbitburg.”

“Yes, master,” Ori had replied, despite the fact that no question had been asked.

“Do something for me.”

It had been unexpected - an order, without any doubt, but delivered with an eagerness that would have been better reserved to equals. For a moment, Ori had got a glimpse of the sort of man Thorin Eijkenskialdi had been, or could have been. Not the recluse in a castle falling to ruins, but a leader among his people, gifted with an instinct for winning their loyalty.

When Ori had promised that he would do as he was bidden, he had felt his heart warm with devotion for his master. However, now that he was in the back of the shop with Dori, far from the castle and its stifling atmosphere, Master Thorin was again the figure painted in the local gossip - a gloomy, disreputable man, one who raised as many sneers as suspicions.

So it was without any guilty feeling that Ori revealed his master’s request, despite the fact that he had guessed Thorin’s desire to keep the thing as hidden from others as possible, and that he could have done it without consulting Dori.

Besides, it did not seem so treacherous a ground to tread on at the time.

“Master Thorin needs clothes for his patient. He asked me to take care of it, and implied that I shouldn’t talk about it to the other servants - like he wanted to hide something...or someone.”

 

*

 

_[excerpt from the diary of Doctor Thorin Eijkenskialdi]_

_November 1st, 18--_

_More_

_Honey_

_Yes_

_Bread_

_Milk_

_Spoon_

_This_

_That_

_No_

_Room_

_Door_

_I have listed above the first words he has learnt. I am, on the other hand, made speechless by this most unexpected turn in his fortune. I had given up hope that he would ever talk. Until the other day, he had not shown any sign of being able to master human language than I his grunts. Though I had started to suspect his understanding to be quicker and deeper that he cared to show, his demeanour reminded me of brute animals in many regards that I had entirely dismissed the idea._

_I have underestimated him._

_He still resorts to unintelligible sounds, but he has started to choose words over grunts from time to time, especially when he feels the urgency and importance of being understood. As a consequence, his vocabulary is mostly related to food - I must note that he has grown pickier about it and resents being served poorly arranged meals. At least this seems to reassure the cook about the high breeding of our guest, and thus the story about the son of a wealthy man from Pest acquires credibility._

_The voice I thought inadequate for words is still very raw, but I’m under the impression that it grows less and less unpleasant every day, as if learning to talk could make it sweeter - he’s obviously learning how to control his throat, tongue, and vocal cords. Talking still tires him though, and I gave him milk and honey for his throat (a remedy he’s likely to abuse, considering how pleased he seemed and how much harder he tried to speak after the first ministration of such a medicine)._

_His first words he has learnt by himself, but I mean to teach him more. I will start with a very simple approach, the same one preferred with savages. I was tempted to wait and see if he could learn everything by himself, like a child gets his language from what he hears in the house. Yet, no matter how tempting the idea of studying the process of learning a language in such a creature, I’m more impatient to offer him the means to share his thoughts._

_He fooled me about his ability to speak, but now I mean to discover the exact extent of his mind. I can’t do that as long as he can’t express himself better. I’m going to push him and teach him so that he can learn as fast as possible - he is, all things considered, a good learner._

_~~Mein Gott, how I have underestimated him~~ _ _._

_Dwalin is unnerved by the creature’s progress. ~~While I see in it proof that he’s less of a monster than I thought, I think that Dwalin can never forget his nature~~. He thinks that his talking may make it harder to keep him in the tower with no one knowing, and he finds that the eeriness of the situation is increased, rather than diminished, by the creature’s new skills._

_Being of another mind, I asked Ori to bring clothes for “my patient”. I decided that this small risk may be worth the chance to discover if I can teach him to dress. The way he’s been acting with regard to his sack tunic makes me hope that my time won’t be wasted - I can still make him a little more civil than he is._

 

*

 

“ _This_ ,” Thorin stressed a little upon the word, since it was among those the creature recognised. His hands were closed over the top rail, “is a _chair_. I sit in a chair. _Chair_. Repeat it.”

They had got so far that the creature could understand his order, or at least guess what was expected of him. The creature opened his mouth and said something that did not sound quite right. He closed it again while Thorin patiently waited - he had already learnt that the creature did not appreciate being pushed too much.

Thorin would later rethink their morning lesson and realise, with great astonishment, that he had indeed let the creature win this hand. He would then find it ridiculously annoying that the little monster had presumed to set the pace for their lesson. For the moment though, Thorin was far more focused on the fact that the creature could manage a new word after not so many attempts.

“Chair,” he said after a little while, in a voice that had already grown clearer.

His pronunciation was far from perfect, but passable and understandable.

“Good,” Thorin said, for the first words he had taught to the creature were _good_ and _bad_ , to be sure that he could understand whether he was doing well or not.

To impress upon the creature’s mind the concept of _good_ , he had fed him honey. The creature already knew what to call it, so he had been a little confused at first. But when Thorin had pinched him hard on his forearm, saying _bad_ , then fed him more honey saying _good_ , some understanding had dawned upon the creature. A few more pinches on his arms and dabs of honey on his tongue had been enough to teach him the rough meaning of _good_ and _bad_.

The creature would always associate the former with honey, to the point that his mind would conjure the taste of honey on his tongue whenever he faced something strikingly good; even later, when he would learn that _good_ and _bad_ were far more complex matters than Thorin’s shallow first lesson.

“This is a _table_ ,” Thorin went on, spreading his hands upon the surface of the slab where the creature, as usual, was seated.

The creature frowned, looking at Thorin’s hands and then at the empty chair close by.

“Chair,” he said, patting the slab - a gesture accompanied by the clank of his manacles.

“No, no chair,” Thorin insisted, shaking his head - a gesture the creature had grown to know as a sure sign of _bad_. “Table. This is a table.”

The creature tilted his head, clearly thinking. He pointed his finger toward the chair, replicating Thorin’s way of pointing out things to him, then moved it toward Thorin. He made a small pause, patted the slab, and turned his finger toward himself.

Thorin groaned.

“Yes, you’re right,” he said a little tightly. “I sit here, you sit there. It’s obvious that you think both must be chairs.”  

The creature had not followed Thorin’s brief speech, but looked vaguely pleased with himself for having confused his teacher. Thorin grunted, then he looked around for a smaller chair and moved it closer to the slab. He grabbed the creature under his arms, without giving him any time to react or protest - and he surely would have done given the chance, since Thorin knew the creature’s aversion to being handled roughly.

He put the creature down, then led him to sit. The creature gave a moan and tried to get up, but Thorin’s hands were heavy on his shoulders and kept him in place.

“This is a chair. A chair. You sit in a chair,” Thorin said, forcing his tone to be reassuring.

“Chair,” the creature repeated, still suspicious but not as much.

“Yes, now you can sit in a chair,” Thorin confirmed, and he had to bite his tongue to not add _like me_.

“Chair. I, chair! You, chair!” the creature supplied, suddenly looking like he was enjoying his new right to a proper chair.

“While this is a table,” Thorin continued, returning to the slab.

“Bed?” the creature suggested instead, looking up at Thorin with wide eyes.

“No, damn,” he replied through his teeth.

He had thought to put aside, at least for the moment, the proper distinction between a table and the slab where he had given shape and life to the creature, since it seemed that the creature could not quite place his memories and feelings about the slab. Yet it was not a chair, nor was it a bed - despite the fact that many times the creature had been either sitting or laying on it.

“Damn?” the creature tried again, now a little disconsolate.

Thorin could not help the guffaw that escaped him. He shook his head though, and tried not to smile.

“No, _damn_ is bad. You mustn’t say it. Do you understand me? No _damn_ on your part.”

The creature did not seem entirely convinced. After all, Thorin mused with equal parts annoyance and mirth, the creature had often heard him and Dwalin swear. On some days, _damn_ had been almost the only word they had exchanged in the creature’s presence, so it was good enough that it had not been the first word the creature had spoken.

“Table,” the creature said then.

Thorin had to say _good_ to keep faith with the approach he had chosen for their lesson, but he felt that the creature had not really accepted that word for the slab, rather had tried to please him. Indeed Thorin was pleased when the creature was obedient and showed he understood his requests, yet he had enjoyed the creature’s objections more than he cared to admit.

It was in some kind of convoluted retaliation that Thorin closed his fingers around the iron chain of the manacles that enclosed the creature’s wrists.

“ _Chain_ ,” he said. Then his fingers ghosted over the iron rings and touched the right cuff. “ _Manacles_ ,” he added, despite the fact that he had resolved to teach the creature small, simpler words at first.

He repeated both words, then waited. Nothing came, despite the fact that he had expressly requested that the creature try them on his tongue. The creature’s mouth remained shut, his eyes slightly vacant. Thorin felt suspicious, because he had learnt that the creature could be very obstinate when he wished to be. So he had every reason to think that the creature _could_ learn those words as well; he did not want though, in silent rebellion against what the words meant to him - constriction, weight, limits.

Again Thorin said the two words, and again he waited. The creature still refused to open his mouth.  

“Bad. This is bad. What you’re doing, _bad_ ,” Thorin said slowly, more to make the words sink in than in the belief that the creature could fail to catch them. “Repeat them.”

As if the pressure of Thorin’s voice had become too much, the creature turned his head away. It was not an unusual gesture, for there had been many things that had made the creature turn the other way, whether he was frightened, repulsed, or simply cross. But there was something new about it, and the sight made Thorin’s throat go dry.

The creature’s cheeks darkened. It was a blush, ruddy rather than delicate, and it seemed to Thorin the most extraordinary thing he had seen about that body. It would have been a quite laughable matter to another man, who would have to first come to terms with the creature’s very existence.

To Thorin though, the blush spoke of _shame_.

It was an emotion that Thorin had never thought the creature could experience, for it was too complicated and it implied both a very precise moral judgement and a sense of one’s own pride. What was worse, the creature not only felt ashamed, but felt ashamed _of Thorin_.

Despite the fact that he would not have been able to explain how he could feel so sure about the kind of shame that had induced the blush, Thorin had no doubts. He knew what he saw, and what he saw was this monster, this _thing_ he had created, ashamed of the chains Thorin had put on him and ashamed of Thorin’s request that he name them aloud.

“For your own good,” he said gently, closing his hands over the metal cuffs. If the creature had been a dear friend, and a man born from a woman before that, Thorin would have closed his hands upon his. “And for mine too. We don’t know each other,” Thorin continued, though he felt how unbalanced and incorrect his statement was - yes, they did not know each other, but Thorin had advantage at any time. “I must be cautious and you...you must be chained.”

The creature seemed tense - _listening_. He turned his head a little and the reproach in his eyes was so sharp that Thorin’s breath caught and his hands fell away from the manacles - as if they had burnt his fingers. He felt colour rising to his own cheeks, just as the blush on creature’s face was fading away.

“Do you know me?” Thorin asked briskly. “You must know what I am to you,” he said, despite the fact that the creature had never given any sign he remembered the night of his birth, except for some of his terrors - flames and thunder.

Yet he must have understood something, known that what Thorin was to him no other man would ever be.

“I am,” Thorin said, “your _creator_. I made you. Here, I made you.”

The creature did not turn away this time. He studied Thorin, as if trying to make sense of him, rather than just his words. Then, tilting his head, he said:

“Master.”

“No, not _master_ ,” Thorin tried to protest. “That’s what Dwalin calls me when we’re not alone. _Creator_. Can you say it?”

“Master,” the creature repeated, a little more firmly.

Thorin hid his face behind his hand. He did not like being called master, since the creature did not serve him. _But he must obey me_ , another voice suggested in his head.

How he would have liked for the creature to know what Thorin Eijkenskialdi was to him!

Yet it was, he had to confess to himself, a ridiculous request. It was too early for the creature to grasp a concept like _creator_. _Father_ would have been another difficult idea, together with the idea of birth - and _death_ , could Thorin explain anything about the creature without talking about it? Besides, he refused to consider himself anything like a father to the creature, so he had rejected the term since the beginning.

“Master,” the creature repeated, a soft appeal that interrupted Thorin’s reflections.

“Yes, I’m your master,” he accepted, though with some regret.

“You master,” the creature said, looking relieved by Thorin’s assent. Then he bit his lip and his breath faltered a little when he asked: “I?”

Thorin had expected it, and still he did not know how to answer that. He could try _creature_ , but it belonged with _creator_ and _creation_ , and he had just dismissed the idea of discussing such concepts with the creature for the moment. Before he could speak, though, the creature himself made his own proposition:

“Monster,” he said.

Thorin felt his chest tighten at the quiet sound of the word upon such an unnatural tongue. Yes, he and Dwalin had called the creature _monster_ many times in his presence. Actually it was the term they used most frequently, though Thorin tended to refer to the creature just as _him_ or _he_.

Later, Thorin would note in his diary that it had been repulsion for that word that had made him speak without thinking twice.

“No, not monster,” he said. “You’re Bilbo Baggins.”


	5. Every Wind that Blows

_“If our impulses were confined to hunger, thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free;  
but now we are moved by every wind that blows and a chance word or scene that that word may convey to us.”_

_[excerpt from the diary of Doctor Thorin Eijkenskialdi]_

_October 20_ _ th _ _, 18--_

 _~~Bilbo~~ _ _He speaks more confidently with every passing day. His progress is not immune to relapses, but I’m no longer able to keep track of the new words he learns, for their number is constantly increasing and he’s learning how to combine them in brief, but generally correct, sentences._

_I’m under the impression that some of the mistakes that still occur owe to a desire for eloquence and detail, and he becomes frustrated when his skills are not up to the greater tasks he sets before himself. Sometimes I encourage him, sometimes I feel the duty to curb his enthusiasm for words - it puts a strain on his energies, but also on Dwalin’s patience._

_As for myself I find that I don’t mind his chattering, whose scientific value never ceases to amaze me - how many inspiring thoughts follow the time I spend with him! Through the great mystery of his existence I glimpse a solution to many issues regarding the human mind and its potential, though my questions about the nature of his learning skills haven’t been answered yet. I record his achievements to the best of my abilities of observation, but I can’t explain his rapid rise from the witless thing that I discovered outside the laboratory to the cunning little creature that has grown so fond of talking._

_Still, my mind is full of ideas, and Bilbo’s behaviour constantly challenges my convictions. I’m adding notes to most of the books in my library, though I tremble at the idea that his existence defies most of the beliefs we hold about Life and Death. He lives, therefore the men of science and wisdom are wrong - even the folktales are closer to the truth than philosophers and scientists ever were._

_It’s equal parts exhilarating and terrifying, for I reckon I’m the man who stands gazing into the abyss._

_I feel the privilege of my position more deeply nowadays, as well as its danger. Before me, there’s the key to a knowledge most of my ex classmates from my days at medical school in Wien would never suspect. Doctor Groinsonur himself dismissed my theories when I made the error of writing to him about them - it was two years ago, and sometimes I wonder if he ever regrets his contempt and his reproach._

Unholy _, he wrote to me. He failed to see the grandness of my task._

_Still, I am aware that this creature is largely imperfect. His body recovered from most of the damage sustained on the night of the storm: the burns have healed, his ankle no longer pains him, and his wrist will recover in a few weeks; some of the stitching is turning into scars, but these will be as ugly as ever._

_I realise that another attempt might bring me closer to creating what people may call the modern Adam - I would call him the modern Durin, father of a nation._

_This creature is made from baser materials. He is in all regards the hideous imitation of a peasant or a grocer; he obviously belongs with the sort of vulgar people who live around here - who die around here. He’s small, with a round face, and his features would be regarded as plain and common if not for the scars and the deformities of his body. Even my servants are better built than him - and, for what it’s worth, than all the short people living in these valleys._

_It is a wonder that they survived through the wars and pillaging that touched the lands all around their hills and their hamlets, while ~~Frerin, Fíli, Kíli~~ we Khazâd perished._

_I suppose that no one considered these lands and these people worthy of any attention, whether for good or ill; the Kaiserthum_ _contents himself with collecting taxes and sending his agents to get drunk with the bürgermeister._

_Yet, despite his faults, I’m not impatient to get rid of this creature. I have learnt too little about his birth as yet, and I can’t move on to the next experiment until I’m sure about what worked and what didn’t work about this one. The picture is incomplete and I can’t take leave from this Bilbo Baggins - as I called him._

_I named him ~~because I felt I owed him a name~~ on a whim; it is extraordinary what a name can do in so little time, like naming a dog makes it yours. He’s apparently happy with his name, to the point that he isn’t fond of answering to other names anymore. ~~I wonder if he understands the meaning of the word “monster”~~._

_He calls me “master” and that pleases Dwalin - in truth one of the few things that seems to please him about the creature’s progress. He disapproves of my teaching, and I suppose that he’s partly right; the more the creature learns about the world immediately around him, the closer he gets to the idea of being a prisoner. And a prisoner can try to free himself._

_In truth I have been wondering about the opportunity to grant him some freedom. Inadequate for civil company, he could at least enjoy some fresh air; my observation would greatly profit from watching him in a different environment, and that would offer new chances to test his skills._

_I have already taken some steps in this regard, asking the younger servant to bring me some clothes from Hobbitburg. I’m not sure that I can rely on his discretion, but I couldn’t do otherwise. He brought me the clothes and prayed me to let him know should I need his services; he suggested that I may need some private secretary, especially in Balin’s absence. He’s right, but this doesn’t mean that I’m going to reveal the creature to him._

_I can’t have my achievements revealed to the world prematurely, when my control over the creature and my understanding of his existence are not complete; too many vultures would try to profit from my work and the pains it gave me, and would cheat me of the honour and respect I’m due._

_Worse, I could be persecuted for dealing with the dead, I’m sure the Kaiserthum would not let the chance pass to smite the last of the Durin line with superstitious accusations. Then they would rob me again, of Ered Luin, of my scientific achievements, maybe even of my life. Besides I fear that the creature’s aspect and origin will always be bound to earn him the hatred of men, ~~like my Khazâd descent will always lay a curse on me~~.       _

_At least the clothes are good enough. He resembles a grocer more than ever in them, but they fit him for this very reason. If he’s not elegant, he’s at least decent and I want him to understand decency, somehow. I gave him the clothes only yesterday, so he’s still learning how to deal with them. At least he seems to have almost immediately understood their value. I think he’s likely to cherish them, and will not soil them - I am much pleased by his inclination toward cleanliness, something I try to encourage at any turn._

_I’m willing to let him learn what it means to be well-fed, clothed, clean; if he grows truly attached to these comforts, it will be easier to teach him a lesson in obedience should he defy me and put us both in danger._

_This will be important if I want to take him out of the laboratory. I will have to take many precautions in that case, and I don’t know what I will do if Dwalin denies me his support. The clothes have also made it more evident that the chains are a hindrance to the creature’s progress, and I would like to take them off, but my assistant suggests that we may regret the creature’s increasing freedom._

_He will run away and then all the words you taught him will be more than enough to accuse us, Dwalin said to me this morning. This might be true. Still, I can’t help thinking that Bilbo wouldn’t run away from me, as I didn’t run away from him - there’s some instinct for loyalty in him ~~, and I can’t help admiring it~~.  _

 

*

 

“I don’t believe a word,” the fat one said, looking down into his mug with a frown. “Landlord!” he called, raising his voice higher than the chattering of the inn. “You sure that there’s no mud at the bottom?”

The landlord stiffened at the suggestion and took to wiping the counter with too much energy.

“It’s those nitwits from the tavern in Mihályodú, spreading falsity around,” he complained, eyeing his clients as to make sure none of them was willing to challenge his accusation. “They water down their ale and put god knows what in their pies, and then dare speak about _my_ ale.”

“But you _did_ have water up to your knees,” the friend of the fat man, the one wearing the white coat of the Imperial officers, said.

“The damned storm,” the innkeeper grunted.

“Never seen one like that in ten years,” a man with the brown wrinkled skin of a peasant agreed, nodding until some ale sloshed on the table. “I thought the roof would fall on our heads. Children and pigs were all screaming, and my wife almost threw me out to take in the sheets she had forgotten outside to dry.”

There was some laughter from the nearest tables at the man’s misfortunes, but another client questioned the landlord again.

“There’s the mark of the water on the walls,” he pointed out, for indeed there was a brownish smudge on the walls reaching at a man’s knee. On the outer walls, some moss had grown . “Where did you keep my ale while your tavern was surrounded by water?”

“I’ve been keeping the _Green Dragon_ for twenty years after my father and his father, and his father’s father before him,” the landlord replied, in an irked tone. “And we’ve always dealt with the river. When the Borbuggyan goes up and out, it goes up and out here as well - the water is the same. And the Borbuggyan goes up and out almost every year, so we do know how to keep our ale safe.”

“What a place to keep an inn,” a voice was heard.

“You can take yourself elsewhere if it pleases you,” the landlord snapped.

The man who had spoken was cowed and returned to his ale, while the fat farmer and his friends resumed their conversation.

“I say that he’s got a prince of royal blood,” the youngest of the small company said. He was the son of a tailor, but he had married above his station and now he owned a little farm and men working the fields for him. Still he had not grown less naive than he had been when he was his father’s shop boy. “It would account for the secrecy.”

“They’d never send any prince to be cured by _him_ ,” the man in white snorted. “They wouldn’t trust Doctor Eijkenskialdi to send a prince back in one piece.”

The young ex-tailor coloured, and the other men seemed annoyed at the crude words.

“We know that there’s an old grudge between the Durins and the Kaiser,” the fat one nodded, “so I don’t think that this new guest at the castle has anything to do with nobles. It must be one from Pest, as some said. Very sick, possibly contagious. And I wouldn’t mind seeing the back of him as soon as possible, lest he spread whatever ails him.”

“You didn’t see his front either,” the fourth companion pointed out with a smile.

Nori knew him for one of the Brandybuck clan, a middle-aged man with a sound mind despite his taste for liquor and idle chattering. The Brandybuck man had not come in with the other three, but he had been invited to join them at their table when he had put his foot in the _Green Dragon_ for a cup of mulled wine.

The two farmers and the man in the white coat - Nori did not know him, but he had deduced that he was some officer sent to Hobbitburg for a round of inspection - had arrived sooner and spent quite a good deal of time talking about uninteresting subjects like the price of corn the next year, and the best way to make pigs grow fat.

With the arrival of the Brandybuck man, they had started exchanging news and it had not taken them very long to get to talk about Ered Luin. Nori, who had almost resolved to leave, had changed his mind as soon as the hint about Thorin Eijkenskialdi had been dropped, and he had asked for another round of ale. The landlord had not looked too overjoyed at the idea that the stranger would stay longer after all - none in Hobbitburg ever seemed very pleased with strangers at all; nonetheless, he had been courteous enough and Nori was slowly drinking his ale, with all the appearance of a tired traveller close to taking a nap on the rough table of the tavern.

So he sat in a small, dark corner, still half-wrapped in damp furs, talking to no one and taking care to not meet anyone’s gaze. His braided hair was hidden under the hood, since it was a detail people tended to remember - and one could never know when the time would come when being forgotten was preferable.

“We’ve got enough on our hands with the fevers,” the fat farmer grumbled. “Old people I understand, but young people dying like this...almost every family has lost someone to the fever: the Boffins, the Fairbairns, the Potts, the Sackvilles, the Goodchilds, the...”

“The Bolgers,” the Brandybuck man added, because his family was related to them.

“I must have heard someone say that the fevers have grown worse since this Doctor Eijkenskialdi settled in the castle up there,” the officer murmured.

“Do you think he may have something to do with it?” the youth asked.

“There’re people who may be happy to use fevers to throw a city into chaos.”

“That’s too grave an accusation,” the Brandybuck man said, a little sharply. “The master of Ered Luin is a strange man, but he holds no power over a sickness like this.”

“We’re all in the Father’s hands,” the first farmer, clearly more religious than his companions, agreed.

“He’s a doctor, isn’t he?” the white man insisted. “If he knows how to cure someone, he must know how to get someone sick. Take this new patient of his, no one saw him, no one even knows his name; no servants and no trunks, so the people at Ered Luin say. And there are strange noises and voices coming from this patient’s quarters, they say.”

“Who, Bofur?” the Brandybuck man asked. He chuckled. “The man’s a good laugh and he can hold a tune very well - let alone that small flute he sold me, the finest I’ve ever played; but I’m not sure that he can be believed, he was probably exaggerating.”

“Was he? I was also told, and by Mistress Sackville, not by a servant, that Doctor Eijkenskialdi stood accused of indecency.”

“ _Indecency_?” the young farmer repeated, and Nori knew exactly why he looked so surprised - he wasn’t even born when _that_ rumour had spread.

“He was found with a stable boy, wasn’t he?” the officer continued.

“It was many years ago. I’m sure the servant was a bad apple...” the fat man explained. “I recall he was from Mihályodú, his own people wouldn’t have anything to do with him, so he pleaded with the family at the castle to take him in to lend a hand with the horses while they stayed here for the hunt. He was dismissed after little time, so people began to say that he had been whipped and sent away for corrupting the young master...”

“I heard that they were caught in the...”

Nori could not hear more than that, since the officer had lowered his voice to a whisper, clearly too decent to share such saucy details in a louder tone. The cheeks of the young farmer grew beet red and the fat one coughed and cleared his throat a few times.

“A mouth is a mouth, I daresay,” the Brandybuck man commented with a shrug.

The pious farmer seemed distressed by such a remark.

“You Brandybucks, always talking like this,” he complained, since that family had a reputation for being bizarre and strongly-opinionated. “But in truth there’s something wrong with those Khazâd folk,” he muttered. Nori’s jaw clenched. “I fear that in Ered Luin the most unnatural things may be going on.”

“You mean that this patient may be _his_...”

“I mean that it has been known for some time that Doctor Eijkenskialdi has been working on _something_. What this something may be I don’t know, but surely there wouldn’t be any need for secrecy if it was for the good of these lands.”

“Maybe he’s creating a weapon,” the officer suggested. “This patient may be his agent, an accomplice.”

“And I’m not a superstitious man,” the farmer continued, as if he had not listened to the other. “Yet my peasants sign themselves whenever they happen upon him when he takes his horse out for a ride in the fields or the woods, no matter how rarely it happens nowadays. For heaven’s sake, they don’t even like to gaze at the castle!”

“Wasn’t his other servant, that Master Dwalin...”

“ _Assistant_ , he calls himself,” the young farmer suggested.

“Well, this assistant was seen loitering about the church and the graveyard at strange hours.”

“And I suppose he doesn’t look like a pious man,” Brandybuck murmured.

“Can it be that Doctor Eijkenskialdi deals in _witchcraft_?” the fat farmer wondered with a shudder.

The locals were all grown men and well-to-do men on top of it; they all paid the taxes and, minus Brandybuck, went to church regularly. Their culture was hardly large or varied, but solid and plain, and they did not like to share their inferiors’ sensibilities. So they deemed themselves superior to base superstitious, though they were perfectly comfortable with the Spring and Summer festivals - if some celebrations were dedicated to an ancient goddess of the fields, they did not feel threatened by her pagan charm. Yet flower crowns and May poles were one thing, witchcraft quite another.

They looked at each other, pale and silent, each one of them struggling with his own private fears - all born from old tales, nursery rhymes, stories passed from mouth to mouth, all promising ill luck and terror.

Brandybuck was the first one to recover from his private reveries.

“I don’t know what Doctor Eijkenskialdi is doing in his castle. If it’s witchcraft, and I’m not saying that it is, I’ll be the first to take fire to his door.”

 

*

 

Fire. No, not fire. Flame. Little flame. Little, good flame. Candle flame. Light and warm, good for you.

“Master?”

“Don’t be afraid. It’s only some light. As long as you don’t touch it and don’t let it fall, it can do you no harm.” Master good. Master bad. Master knows better, always better. “There, keep the candle in your hand. Can you feel that the wax is warm? No, don’t drop it!”

“Sorry.”

“Yes, you’re sorry,” master annoyed. It’s bad, bad to annoy the master. “You’re still afraid of fire, you would freeze your bones rather than starting one, wouldn’t you? Oh, what you’d do without me.”

 _Nothing_. I do nothing without you.

“Master teaches me all the good things.” And some bad things, bad things the master teaches and bad things inside me, like fires starting in my head and my bones. Cold is bad, but it is better than fires.

“I’d like to teach you more, Bilbo.”

Happy, feel happy. Master calls you by name. A name is good, a gift, a wonder, a prize. Master can give a name and can take the name away. Keep the name, keep the master. The only things you have.

“I want more. I want to learn more. I want to learn more about...”

 _You know nothing_. Just the fire and the thunder, and master, master, master.

“Breathe. Don’t be in a rush, speak properly. Clear your thoughts, think orderly, then your speech will improve. Now tell me what you want to learn,” master says.

Good, good like jam butter bread when he talks like this.  

“I want to learn more about words. And...writing. Master writes his thoughts in his papers. I have thoughts too, I want to write them in papers. Like...like master does. Can I have paper? Please, master, can you give me papers and teach me to write?”

“I wasn’t expecting that,” master admits. “You take me by surprise, Bilbo. Learning how to write will take you some time and it won’t be easy. Are you sure you want to do that?”

“Yes, I thought about it.”

“When? When did you think about it?”

“I...many days. At night, when I’m alone and it’s dark, I have thoughts. Maybe I can write them, so they are...so I can touch them.” Fire, I want to put them afire. I know paper can burn, I’ll burn my thoughts. “You write a lot when you’re with me.”

“It’s true, I do. I do it because I need to record all that happens between you and me.”

“You write about me.”

“Yes, I write about you, Bilbo. About your progress, the state of your body and the state of your mind. Writing helps me remember and understand.”

Master remembers me, understands me; is it good, is it bad?

“I can...I can write about you too.”

Master laughs. Good, this is very good. A good sound, like music. Master taught me _music_. It is music when master sings, master can use his voice and make music, honey in my mouth, and I can listen and be happy.

“Can you sing for me, master?”

“Bilbo, do not lose focus,” master reproaches. “I’m glad you enjoyed that, but it wasn’t a show. It was to teach you what music means - another good thing I wanted to teach you. But I won’t sing at your request. Now, tell me about what you would write.”

“About master.” Words in my mouth, can’t get out. I think them, but I don’t speak them. This is shyness, this thing I feel, master calls it shyness.

“What would you write about me?”

“The state of your body and the state of your mind, master”

Laughing again.

“That’s a formidable answer, Bilbo. I should have expected it...I suspect that you’re growing a sense of humour.”

I don’t know the word. I try to remember, but I don’t.

“ _Humour_ , is it good?”

“Up to a point.” Master smiles, I forget - I want to forget - to ask how it is beyond a point. “I’ll think about teaching you to write. I don’t see anything wrong with the idea, but I have to reflect upon giving you ink and paper. I’ll have to teach you how to hold a quill so you don’t get ink upon all your clothes.”

“I like my clothes, I will keep them clean. I want...I’d like to have more clothes, please.”

“You won’t wear shoes though.”

“Don’t like them.” Shake head, like master does when he is displeased.

“I can’t fathom why. Your feet are large and quite roughly shaped, that’s true. But the shoes are big enough to accommodate them and they shouldn’t pain you. Still, you persist in going shoeless.”

“I prefer my feet like this.”

Shoes heavy, heavy. Like chains, more chains. Want to feel the ground.

“You should at least try socks. They would keep your feet warmer.”

“I prefer my feet like this.”

Repeat it, because master repeats words when he wants me to understand. I can repeat too.

“I’m not sure I should allow you to do what you want,” master sighs.

“ _Please,_ master? I will be good, very good. But don’t make me wear shoes, I don’t like them, they...”

“For the moment. But I might change my mind at any time, so you should rather get used to the idea. No, do not look at me like that, and twitch your nose - I’m learning all about your nose twitching. There, don’t cover it now. I’m not displeased with you, though you’re a stubborn little thing.”

“Dwalin says master is stubborn.”

“Does he? I suppose he did behind my back, as if you had no ears to pick up all the foolish things that come out of his mouth. Anyway, you must not concern yourself with what Dwalin says, but you must obey him in my absence. And call him Master Dwalin, not just Dwalin.”

“Yes, master.”

I don’t like Dwalin, Dwalin doesn’t like me. He’s no master. Master is one, and his eyes are blue - I’m learning the words for colours, and there were no blue things except for master’s eyes to show me what _blue_ is.

“Now, there’s something I would like you to try. Listen to me, Bilbo. You must obey me, you must not betray my trust. I’m going to take off the chains from your wrists, but you must behave properly and do nothing unusual. Can you understand this? I need you to prove to me that I can trust you. You will not betray me, Bilbo.”

I will never betray you. You are my master.


	6. The Acquirement of Knowledge

_“How dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge and how much happier that man is  
_ _who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to be greater than his nature will allow.”_

  
  
Tall trees blotted out the stars, the forest seemingly larger than night itself; there was no moon washing the highest branches and the infrequent clearings, where a layer of frost coated the ground in silver. The thick darkness of the moonless night was not fortuitous: Thorin had chosen it to best conceal his doings.

The air was sharp with the smell of snow carried by the wind. In a few weeks, snow would fall over the forest and the castle as well; for the moment though, only the peaks of the surrounding mountains wore heavy cloaks of white. In the morning, from the windows of his own room Thorin could glimpse the far glimmer of snow which had replaced the usual blue outline of the mountain range, but in the middle of the night the uninhabited crests were invisible from the forest ground, hidden as they were by trees and darkness alike.  

On a night like this, Thorin could have mistaken the surroundings for places far dearer to his heart - differences which would appear too distressing in broad daylight were softened in darkness and Thorin’s mind could conjure the profile of another peak, far more lonely and barren than these mountains.

Now gone was the harrowing sight of small cottages and farms on the hills and by the river, while the silhouette of the bell tower of Hobbitburg, that could be seen from Ered Luin on a clear day, had vanished among the shadows. In its place a city of dark stone, ringing with the sound of hammers, lit by the fires of the forges where gold and silver melt, spurted from Thorin’s thoughts.

“Dark.”

Thorin’s head turned abruptly - silently he reproached himself, for he had resolved to be alert and yet his thoughts had been wandering. In the languid light that fell from the lantern Thorin carried the creature’s profile looked as ghastly as it had ever been in Thorin’s eyes.

“Yes, it’s a dark night,” Thorin replied, forcing his voice to conceal his emotions, for the creature’s understanding of the feelings of his master was growing sharper, and Thorin felt that it represented a liability in their relationship. He needed the creature to neither understand nor sympathize with his mood, since it would suggest that they might be peers. “Nights are not always like this though, sometimes the moon glows in the sky and the stars shine brighter in an unclouded sky.”

“Fires in the dark of night,” the creature replied, repeating Thorin’s lesson about the celestial bodies. “And they’re placed in the sky like on the map you showed me. I think I’d like to see them master, though I fear them.”

“Why do you fear them?”

He was vaguely surprised at the remark, since Bilbo had grown more confident about flames of late. Thorin had taken care to explain that neither the stars or moon could harm him in any way, being too far from Earth to burn his skin or blind his eyes. He had on the other hand warned Bilbo about looking directly at the sun, as well as about the consequences of being too long in the sun, especially in Summer.

Thorin had delivered these notions with some uneasiness, since he did not know if the creature would ever see the end of Winter or leave the tower during daytime. It might have been tactless of Thorin to impart lessons that might never find any application, but he could not help indulging Bilbo’s curiosity and often ended up teaching more than he had planned.

“I fear them because you fear them,” Bilbo explained, without looking at Thorin. “The moon grows and thins in turns, and that’s what we call lunar phases. Every day I asked you to show me the things outside the rooms, but you told me to be patient and wait. I think you waited for a moonless, cloudy night. So there must be something about the moon and the stars that frightens you.”

“You spoke very well,” Thorin commented, somewhat coldly. “You’re improving in that regard. Still, you should put your wits to better use than questioning my choices.”

“Yes master,” the creature said meekly.

Bilbo was sensitive to Thorin’s reproach as well as to his praises, for he had some intellectual vanity that could be played upon quite easily, still Thorin hardly found any enjoyment in mortifying the creature’s sound mind. Therefore it was with the intention of improving Bilbo’s mood that Thorin asked:

“How do you feel about this moment?”

It was possibly the most complex question Thorin had ever asked Bilbo. He had already noticed that the creature’s learning skills were more effective if their lessons were in the form of dialogue, so he encouraged Bilbo to question him and he always questioned Bilbo in turn.

Yet Thorin had never inquired about the creature’s mood, not like this. He had asked about his thoughts, about the notions he was hoarding, about his physical state, about his motives. Not about his feelings though, not without suggesting anything about them - _are you afraid? Are you feeling better? Are you still angry?_

“I feel...” Bilbo began, because he knew what _feel_ meant by now. He stopped, his brow furrowed and his fingers circling his own wrists - a little habit he had developed since Thorin had removed the manacles from them. “I feel _full_. Like after a large breakfast with bread and butter and honey, and little cakes and boiled eggs, and hot milk and sweet cheese, dried fruits and jam, and I don’t really know where I should begin, because I don’t want to leave anything behind...and still there’s something empty a little higher, here,” he amended, both his hands clasping his chest. “I feel my heartbeat, but it’s like all the things inside me got smaller.”

Bilbo was out of breath, his shoulders hunched under an invisible weight. Trembling too, and Thorin thought that he might have noticed it before, if not for the layers of fur he had wrapped around the creature - both to keep him warm and to disguise his appearance should they have any unfortunate meeting. Now Thorin wondered whether Bilbo had been in such a frail state since the very first step they had taken outside the tower.

“ _Overwhelmed_ ,” Thorin breathed in the cold air. “You are overwhelmed, Bilbo.”

Thorin suddenly felt foolish. He had thought that such an unremarkable night would not excite the creature’s senses; shadows, chilliness, and the trees around them offered quite a bleak pattern of sensations. Besides, he had never left the creature’s side, nor had he removed the chains from his ankles - Thorin held one end of the chain; the back door through which they had left the castle was but a dozen steps behind them.

It was true that the forest on that side of the castle had seemed to close in immediately upon them and there were sounds (whispers, falls, calls) and smells (earth and water, plants and animals) that the tower had never revealed to Bilbo’s ears and nose, but this was such a simple and restrained experience of the outside world that Bilbo shouldn’t have...

“I’m taking you back,” Thorin grunted, his hand heavy on the creature’s shoulder. “It’s making you sick.”

Bilbo flinched at the touch but bore it, yet his eyes searched Thorin’s face in the feeble lantern light.

“Oh no, please no,” he pleaded, though he looked pained. “Please, master. I want to...”

 _He doesn’t even know what he wants_ Thorin thought, disgusted with himself for having let his impatience to put Bilbo to the test overcome his prudence. Not only was Bilbo ill-prepared and unfit - his gait precarious over the unknown and irregular ground, his feet stark naked because Thorin had been unable to convince him to wear anything on them, his lungs unused to the open-air; but Thorin was also putting his entire work at risk, acting as he was without Dwalin’s knowledge and support.

Yet Thorin had been too pleased with the creature’s progress, too anxious to see how he would fare outside, too eager to show Bilbo more than his lessons and his words could ever do. _This is not how it should have been done_ , Thorin admitted to himself. He should have worked up to this step gradually, first allowing Bilbo to take a look from a window, then to sit for an increasing amount of time at that very same window, later on leading him to the doorstep and no further than that, eventually daring to guide him into the world.

While Bilbo was now shivering as if in a fit, his paleness had acquired a greyish tint, and...

“Please. It’s just too...too much. All together,” Bilbo babbled in broken sentences. His face was scrunched up, fervour and misery making it uglier. “Not bad, though. Not good either, I don’t really know. Only let me stay here, another moment. Little time, here. Master, please, I’m not afraid.”

 _But I am_.

Thorin tugged at the chain, as if he wanted to make sure that it was still there, to give him power over Bilbo’s obstinacy. Bilbo gave a little whine, but he did not falter when he spoke again.

“I’ll be good, I promise. Just here, a little longer. _Show me_ , master.”

Thorin cast a glance behind his back, wondering how much Bilbo would struggle if he dragged him back to the tower. He had, indeed, no reason to think that the creature’s fight would give him too much trouble as he was stronger than Bilbo and knew the ground. Besides, the creature was already fatigued by his own excited senses, so it would be easy to get the upper hand. Still, Thorin was unwilling to fight.

They had set into a sort of stable relationship, where Thorin did not need to reassert his authority at every turn. Punishments had become infrequent and Thorin suspected that because his rule had turned kinder, Bilbo had grown more reasonable and obedient as a result. It made their time together endurable though, so neither of them ever seemed willing to challenge the status quo.

“A few moments,” Thorin agreed, fingering the chain. “Then I’m going to take you back in.”

“Yes master,” Bilbo nodded slowly. “Show me?” he repeated, sounding hopeful.

Thorin rolled his eyes, despite the fact that Bilbo probably could not see his face. He should have felt offended by the creature’s insistence - _show me_ was the sort of command one might give to a whore, while Bilbo should have put his clever tongue to better work and asked as he had been taught to. Politeness seemed to come easy to the creature, and Thorin did not mind a few _pleases_ to remind him that he could deny and withdraw his gifts at any time.

“Please, master,” Bilbo added, as if he had read Thorin’s mind.

 _Clever boy_ , Thorin thought. Actually there was not much he could _show_ Bilbo with so little light at their disposal, but there was plenty to touch. Thorin bent down, picked up something from the ground, then turned toward the creature.

“Here, take it in your hands. Don’t worry, it’s not going to hurt you. It is only a pinecone.”

“Oh, from...from the trees.”

Thorin had to raise his lantern again to study the creature’s expression. He was relieved to notice that the paleness had subsided and that Bilbo was holding the pinecone, turning it slowly to observe it better. He squinted, because the light was weak, and his fingers worked up and down the texture of seeds, trying to register as many details as possible about this novelty in his hands.   

“You can take it inside if you like it,” Thorin offered, hoping that this would be a good way to prompt Bilbo to delay their return no further. Besides, the pinecone would offer an interesting object for a lesson.

“It is...” Bilbo began, but fell silent again.

“What is it?” Thorin asked before Bilbo’s stunned silence.

The creature’s eyes flickered from the pinecone to Thorin’s face and back.

“Is it...” Bilbo tried again, his voice no higher than a whisper, so that Thorin had to lean down a little to listen. “I mean, the pinecone. Is it _mine_?”

“I’ve given it to you,” Thorin replied, amused.

He had not expected that Bilbo would make such a fuss of a pinecone. After all Thorin had already given him clothes, a better cot, and other blankets; there were a few things Bilbo could call _his_ \- indeed a pinecone was a poor gift and a useless thing compared to the others. Yet, Thorin reasoned with himself, the emotions prompted by the first sight of the world outside were making Bilbo...sentimental.

Thorin did not mean to encourage this kind of pathetic mood, since he wanted his creature to be sensible and rational; he wanted him to study the pinecone and maybe try to draw it, not _cherish_ it. But there was something infinitely endearing in the way Bilbo’s hands tightened on the pinecone when Thorin loomed over him, as if he feared that his master could take it away.

“Is it mine?” Bilbo asked again, his body a little stiff, his voice sharp at the edges.

Thorin raised an eyebrow at him and said nothing. His scowl was enough to make Bilbo lower his gaze, though his small fingers did not release his prize.

“It’s yours,” Thorin said. “Now, we go back.”

Bilbo nodded quickly, the pinecone vanishing into his clutch under the fur. He seemed content with that little piece of forest he was taking back with him, and Thorin refrained from teasing him for such a feeling, no matter how childish he found it.

It was far more important that their little escapade had gone unnoticed.

 

When they made it back to the castle, Thorin double-checked every passage and door to be sure that no one had been spying on them. Yet the house was silent and once again the only light was that of their lantern. Despite the good signs - or better, the absence of bad signs - Thorin did not feel at ease until he had led Bilbo safely back into the tower, the chain attached to the usual ring while he checked the creature’s state.

It seemed that there would be no lasting damage. Bilbo was still overwrought, his mind wandering back to the forest, his speech less eloquent than usual when he kept musing about what he had experienced, but it would wear off in a few days, especially if Thorin helped him focus on the next goal of his education .

“Be quiet,” Thorin reproached him, while he took his face in his hands to check his eyes.

They seemed to be in focus, a little bright but not feverish.

“Does the forest ever end, master? There were trees and trees everywhere.”

“I said _quiet_ ,” Thorin grumbled. “Show me your tongue,” he ordered.

Bilbo complied, but still wanted to talk - to the comical effect of neither talking nor obeying Thorin’s request. At least the creature’s tongue was clean and Thorin did not smell anything unusual on his warm breath.

“Do you often go into the forest, master?” Bilbo asked, more clearly now that Thorin’s fingers were not prying his mouth open. “Do you _like_ the forest?”

“Have you finished with your questions?” Thorin replied, frowning but feeling not annoyed enough to properly reproach the creature. He could not help finding Bilbo’s excitement quite rewarding, after all the pain he had gone through to get him out of the tower for such a small amount of time - what with the chain, the clothes, the furs, Dwalin’s vigilance... “You must go to sleep,” Thorin said, half talking to himself. “Stop thinking about what happened. We will talk about it tomorrow if you’re good enough.”

“Master, will you...”

A sharp glance was enough to convince the creature that it would be better not to insist.

Yet, when Thorin put him back into his cell, Bilbo placed the pinecone beside his cot. Thorin had almost forgotten about it, more interested as he had been in taking care that they had not been discovered and that the creature would not suffer too much from his imprudence.

Now the sight of the pinecone made the corner of his mouth lift in a crooked smile. He remembered that Fíli, the oldest of his sister’s sons, had often selected small trinkets to be his night companions when he was a child. The habit had worn off by the time of Kíli’s birth, but Thorin could not count how many times he’d had to remove those little things from Fíli’s bed for fear that the child could ingest them or hurt himself in his sleep.

Thorin felt tempted to do the same for Bilbo, but a sudden horror of what Bilbo was to him, and what Fíli would be no more, stopped him. He backed away, suddenly aware of how tired and wound-up he was himself; he felt impatient to lock the door of his quarters, and forget himself in sleep or writing.

Yet he heard when Bilbo whispered:

“Thank you, master,” in a voice swollen with gratitude.

 

*

 

“It’s mine!” the monster protested, his voice rising enough that Dwalin shuddered at the thought that they could be heard. And the servants had been given plenty to talk about over the last two years without that ugly brat yelling at seven in the morning.

“Tell me how you got it,” Dwalin grunted, while he swatted away the creature’s hand when he tried to push him away. Instead he grabbed the creature’s forearm and bent it until the creature was forced to loosen his hold. The pinecone rolled onto the floor of the cell, but Dwalin hardly looked at it. “How did you get it?” he hissed in the monster’s face.

For a moment he thought that the creature would spit in his face, but it seemed that he had developed a preference for talking and whining since he had learnt to speak. It was not a welcome change, at least from Dwalin’s point of view: kicks and spit were something Dwalin knew how to deal with, but a monster getting smart and babbling all the time with the master was not to his liking.   

“It’s not any of your business, Master Dwalin,” the creature replied, trying to slip from Dwalin’s grasp and stretching his neck to see what had happened to the pinecone. “You’re hurting me. I...I ask you to release me, immediately.”

“Don’t overdo it, monster,” Dwalin scowled, giving the creature a good shake until his teeth rattled. “You may have learnt many words of late, but they won’t do you any good if you don’t use them to tell me how the hell it got into your bed.”

“Please Master Dwalin,” the creature babbled, changing his strategy and looking pleadingly at Dwalin. “We don’t have to quarrel.”

Dwalin laughed bitterly at that.

“We must, since we have such different goals. My goal, you see, is taking care of Master Thorin; yours is, apparently, to bother him.”

“That’s not true,” the monster protested, looking so affronted and repulsed that Dwalin felt a little guilty.

Indeed the monster seemed to have developed a certain loyalty to Thorin and showed him obedience in almost all things, but it was not enough to make Dwalin trust the creature - _someone must keep watch, and if Thorin doesn’t because he likes to keep this ugly pet, I must._

“Then how did it get here? I’m sure there was no pinecone yesterday when I locked you up before going to sleep,” Dwalin answered, his boot touching the pinecone. The monster looked pained at that, as if Dwalin had kicked him rather than a stupid pinecone which had mysteriously appeared overnight. “So you must have taken it, but you were chained...someone gave it to you. Who? Was it one of the servants?”

“It was me, Dwalin.”

Dwalin turned his head to find Thorin standing on the threshold of the cell. He was already dressed, but his long hair had not been brushed and so hung wildly around his tired face. At the corner of his eye Dwalin saw that the monster was looking at the master as well. The creature appeared relieved, but only partially, by Thorin’s interruption.

“Let him go now, he did nothing,” Thorin ordered.

Dwalin obeyed instantly; as soon as he was set free, the monster crouched on the floor to retrieve the pinecone and hid it in the folds of his silly nightgown - another piece of clothing from the bundle of old garments that Ori had brought from Hobbitburg at Thorin’s demand. Another thing the master had not thought it necessary to discuss with Dwalin before acting, and another loose end that sooner or later would have to be tied, lest it bring ruin upon Ered Luin.  

The creature was no longer looking at them, but now Dwalin saw that his master’s eyes were on the monster - Thorin looked puzzled and saddened at the same time. He did not seem to have had any good hour of sleep, if the state of his hair and the dark under his eyes were anything to go by.

“The pinecone...” Dwalin began, feeling ready to become annoyed with his master.

“Yes, I gave it to him,” Thorin replied distractedly, eyes still not leaving the monster.  

“You came here after I left for the night,” Dwalin accused him. “You...”

“I took him outside.”

Dwalin was stunned into silence. He had not expected that because, even if he knew that Thorin had been harbouring such plans for a while, he could not believe that he would try to carry them out without his help.

“He didn’t want to tell me about it,” Dwalin spat.

“I suppose so,” Thorin nodded slowly, then he tilted his head and spoke to the monster. “I didn’t ask you to keep silent about what happened last night. You could have told Dwalin at any moment, rather than making all that noise and getting a bruise on your arm.”

“I’m sorry master,” the monster apologised, but to Dwalin’s ears it sounded hollow.

 _At least we agree on this_ , he thought, _the master may not have asked you to keep any secret for him, but this doesn’t mean there wasn’t any secret at all between you two_. And the monster was disappointed at the thought that Thorin could try to deny it, exactly as Dwalin was, though for probably very different reasons.

“We must talk,” Thorin said when Dwalin made to walk past him. He had spoken as if he did not like the idea one bit, but did not see any other option. “After dinner, in my study.”

There was nothing to do but for Dwalin to reply:

“Yes master,” and carry on with the daily duties.

 

Unfortunately, the more Dwalin thought about it all, the more his anger increased. He was overflowing with it - the endless resentment for the place they had landed in through so much misery and loss, the burning shame for what and whom he had not been able to protect in the past, the nagging fear of Thorin’s obsession, that a tribunal, or worse a mob, would condemn as devilry.

Above all, the ugly thing that they were keeping alive despite the threat he posed to everything they had left.

So tiredness, loneliness, old regrets muddled Dwalin’s mind and it was in the worst of moods that he made his way to Thorin’s study that night, after eating alone in the kitchen - Thorin had taken dinner into his rooms, and then he had probably brought something to the creature.

 _He grooms him as if he is his favourite dog_ , Dwalin thought with indignation, _choosing the tastiest bits from his plate and worrying about his comfort_. At least Thorin had always trusted Dwalin with his dogs; not with this one though.

When he reached the door to Thorin’s quarters, Dwalin hardly knocked before shoving himself inside. He found his master at his desk in his shirtsleeves, with only a lamp to show him what he was writing in his diary. For a moment, it looked as if Thorin had completely forgotten his appointment with his assistant. He had spent most of the day in the tower with the creature and Dwalin had already noticed that his master’s mood grew strange when he passed so many hours in the monster’s company.

“Take a seat,” Thorin ordered, quickly recovering from his surprise.

Dwalin did, but only after he had stirred the dying embers in the fireplace and a little flame had spurted forward. The darkness of the study lessened, to the point that Dwalin’s eyes could discern every spine of the books that crowded the shelves, as well as the lines on Thorin’s forehead.

 _I know your face so well_ , Dwalin thought a little wildly.

“He’s not either of your nephews,” he blurted out.

It was not the opening he had thought of (but had he really thought of any opening?), and it came out of his mouth in a gust of breath, like a secret he had been keeping for too long. He saw Thorin stiffen, and dark locks slipped against his cheeks. Yet his master’s voice was quiet, lined with sarcasm when he replied:

“I know quite well he isn’t.”

“Nor your brother,” Dwalin added.

Thorin smiled coldly, as if to suggest that his assistant’s arguments were quite unworthy of his time.

“I dare anyone could mistake him for one of my own blood,” he commented.

“But I thought that was the point,” Dwalin protested, feeling his face grow flushed. “To undo the ills of the war, to cheat Death...”

“Death is not to be cheated. _Defeated_ , yes, this is something I can achieve.”

“With that little soldier of yours you stitched together?” Dwalin asked bluntly.

“I forbid you to speak of my work with such contempt,” Thorin pointed out, growing terribly quiet. “This creature is another step on the ladder, but rest assured that I cannot mistake him for Frerin, Fíli, or Kíli.”

Those names, spoken so openly, were enough to turn Dwalin silent for a few moments. He did not dare look at Thorin right now, but fixed his eyes on the blooming fire.

“This ladder of yours...is it going up or down?” he asked at last, casting a side-glance at Thorin.

“Up or down?” Thorin inquired, now leaning with his back against the chair.

“Are we taking another step toward something better or just meddling with things that should remain underground?”   

“Are you growing _superstitious_ , Dwalin?” the master asked, smiling vaguely.

“I’m not. I’ve been at your side all those nights, digging up the dead in the graveyard, taking them out limb by limb at times. I’m not squeamish,” he said, though he wanted to say _I’m loyal_.

“I know what you do for me. I’ve always known.”

“Well then don’t doubt my resolve to see this business through.”

“Yet you’re displeased with my choices about Bilbo.”

 _Bilbo_. Dwalin cringed at hearing the name on his master’s lips. There was nothing wrong with naming the monster if this made it easier to talk about him or claim his attention. Still Dwalin had been unable to make use of the name the master had given to the creature, so he kept calling him _monster_ out of Thorin’s hearing.

“I’m worried about the consequences,” he said gruffly, looking at his big, inked hands. He had broken a few necks with them, in battle. Yet he quivered at the idea of the other things his hands had done at Thorin’s service. Dwalin had never thought that there was still so much for him to discover about death, after all the times he had faced it on the battlefield. “If you agree that he’s not what you meant to achieve, that he’s only a step on the ladder...then you may think about the next step.”

“You suggest, as you did on the night of his creation, to kill him.”

“Yes.”

Thorin looked at him intently, as if weighing Dwalin’s resolve. Something softened in Thorin’s look, his sharp eyes lost some focus and he made a gesture with his hand mid-air.

“I must confess that I find him an interesting distraction. His very existence questions my ideas and challenges me to reach a deeper understanding of how his life is possible, and how death can be reversed. Some nights I can’t sleep at the thought that I _did_ it, I gave life to something that was dead; but I made him with your help, I don’t need to tell you how it feels,” Thorin suggested, though Dwalin averted his gaze - he had had several sleepless nights since the storm, but it was from the fear of being discovered or murdered in his bed, not from pride at the horror they had created. “There’s so much I can gain from dealing with him in terms of scientific knowledge. There’s so much, Dwalin, so much...” Thorin repeated, his eyes dark with a lust for knowledge that was both compelling and sinister, like all kinds of lust. “And he’s the key that pries that door open.”

“We know nothing about him,” Dwalin protested. “We don’t even know _what_ he is. His mood changes, his manners...it all sounds a sham to me.”

“I thought about it...” Thorin admitted, caressing his beard. “But you see, he’s something new that never was before. He’s not a child that grows day by day, neither is he a man back from the dead. He still doesn’t have any personality to speak of, but a collection of broken types that seem to live together in one body.”

“As if from all the people he’s made of...” Dwalin began, but Thorin frowned and waved the comment away.

“It’s not like that. He’s not remembering, he never gives any sign in that regard...he’s only confused and torn between different impulses,” he explained, his voice betraying the interest he found in the topic. “He’s already growing out of it, and something like a character is being drawn out of him. This is why I need to keep taking him out, from time to time. Experience shapes his mind and inclinations, so I’m going to show him more of what’s outside the tower. And you’re going to help me.”

Dwalin lowered his head, to hide the disappointment on his face. He knew he would obey, as he always did in the end. Besides, he had already been given proof that Thorin was willing to carry out his designs with or without his support, so it was better for him to be at his master’s side to vigil upon him, rather than leaving him to deal with the monster alone.

“I only hope,” Dwalin said quietly, “that all this knowledge you’re giving him is not going to make him worse than he is. There are many good things to learn, and you being a scholar know this far better than me, but we both know that most things one learns are far from good. I fear there’s no way to teach him the one without the other.”


	7. Master Baggins

The sharp tip of the quill gave a soft screeching sound as it moved across the page - slightly unpleasant, but the combined smell of ink and paper was interesting and he paused again just to breathe it in. He tilted his head, his tongue peeping out between his lips and his eyes narrowing on the page, then drew a new _B_. There were dozens of them in rows, covering half the page. Still he was not satisfied and raised his eyes to check whether the master was surveying his work or not.

He felt a little disappointed when he saw that the master was focused on his own writing and not looking at him. Yet at the same time he was shamefully thrilled at the idea that he was looking at the master without being seen. The master spent a good deal of time observing him, but it was infrequent that he could take a good look at the master without him knowing. And before he could really focus on how it felt to look upon the master, blue eyes met his and he let the quill fall.

“How’s it going Bilbo?” the master inquired, rising from his chair to move around the table and leaving his papers unattended. Bilbo could not help spying on the black lines of his master’s notes, despite the fact that he could not read much and they were upside-down.

“You’re improving,” the master said, for he had reached Bilbo’s side of the table and was now leaning down to examine his work. “Does your hand feel more confident after some practice?”

“Yes master,” Bilbo nodded, feeling a little embarrassed for having let the quill fall and drops of ink speckle the page.

Even if the master had said nothing about it, Bilbo picked up the quill to show that he could hold it as the master had showed him, while with his left he used the blotting paper to dry the stains.

“Will you draw another for me?” the master asked, slipping into the chair next to Bilbo.

Bilbo was used to being asked to perform under the attentive gaze of his master, so he did not suffer any embarrassment from it, nor did he usually question his master’s right to observe and judge him. He simply did as he was told, because it was an order, but also because if he did well he would be praised. Besides, writing was something he had asked to be taught, so Bilbo felt especially grateful for the time he could spend with ink and paper.

“It’s quite different from my own _B_ ,” the master commented.

He took one of the papers that lay on his side of the table, and brought it under Bilbo’s gaze to show him a capital _B_. The sight made Bilbo’s eyes widen, because he could recognise the word the master was pointing to him - he had already learnt at least, how to read his name.

The idea that his name had been written there by the master’s hand was gratifying, more than it should have been considering that Bilbo already knew that the master wrote about him when they were together - _the state of your body and the state of your mind_.

“Is it bad that it’s different?” Bilbo asked, studying his master’s _B_ compared to his.

The master’s was sharp and tall, full of edges. His own a little, fat double bow. They were indeed very different and Bilbo wondered how his _B_ had turned out that way - he had begun just copying the letters the master had drawn for him, then he had stopped looking and something had happened.

“No, it isn’t bad,” the master replied, though he had been silent for a short while. “Everyone gets his own handwriting and I suppose that you must have yours. It means that we write each letter differently, but it’s good as long as they can still be recognised. I want your handwriting to be clear and tidy.”

“I want that too, master,” Bilbo said happily.

_Tidy_ was one of his favourite words, something he would like to apply to most things in his life.

“Have you practiced the other letters too?”

“I did, but I thought that the _B_ would be the most important one...it’s the beginning of both my first and last name,” Bilbo reminded him, daring to retrieve the quill from his master’s hand. He dipped it in the ink bottle then drew two _Bs_ next to each other, to show his master what he meant. “Bilbo,” he said, his finger tapping the paper just under the first _B_ , “Baggins,” he added, feeling strangely pleased with himself.

He had never said it to the master, shy as he felt about it, but he liked his name. He did not think that the master could have chosen a better one. It felt like a favourite shirt that was neither too long or too large, too short or too narrow; that shirt fitted him and it gave him pleasure to wear it and to be seen in it. So _Bilbo Baggins_ was a name that suited him marvellously, neither too large or too narrow, too long or too short.

He liked to hear his name as frequently as possible, to the point that he had developed the habit of repeating it to himself at night if sleep did not come quickly. He burrowed himself under his blankets and murmured his name again and again, rolling it in his mouth like a tasty morsel, a spoonful of honey, a good word from his master.

“It’s called a monogram,” the master said, looking at the couple of _Bs_. “It means that the first letters of your name are combined and used as a sign that something belongs to you.”

“Monogram,” Bilbo repeated, frowning. It sounded quite interesting, but he was not sure about what it actually meant - was it like a signature in ink on your belongings? He did not like too much the idea of staining his clothes with ink. “How does it work? Do you have a monogram, master?”

“It is...” the master began, but then he stopped. “Let me show you.”

He did something he had never done before - that was why Bilbo’s eyes never left him while he undid the top button of his shirt. It felt utterly wrong, like an impolite breach of rules, since the only kind of undressing that Bilbo had ever experienced was his own, whether at his own hands or his master’s.

Once the collar was loosened, the master untied the silk dark cravat he wore around his neck - an accessory Bilbo would have liked to try on himself, but he would never have the courage to ask.

It took Bilbo some time to realise that the cravat was the point, because his gaze had been drawn by the sight of his master’s now bare neck and the slight bobbing of his adam’s apple. Fortunately the master did not take any notice of Bilbo’s wandering gaze, because he was absorbed in the cravat himself.

“Here, can you read it?” he asked at last, showing the cravat to Bilbo. “My initials are woven into the silk. This is my monogram,” he explained.

“You put it there,” Bilbo commented, observing the two letters in silver, enclosed by a half circle.

“I didn’t put it there myself,” the master corrected him. “My...someone else did. As a gift. People like to show their monogram on their handkerchiefs, cravats, cufflinks, sheets, and other things.”

“So they recognise those things as theirs? Do they think they would lose them otherwise?”

“Sometimes,” the master’s lips curved in a quick smile. “It’s above all about pride; the monogram reminds them where they belong and who they are.”

“ _T_ ,” Bilbo read on the cravat. _“E_...and what is this?” he asked, pointing at the half circle.

“It’s a _D_ for Durin. It’s the name of my lineage. It’s not easy to explain,” the master admitted, but Bilbo knew that he would try nonetheless - it was one of the things he liked most about his master’s lessons, how he would always try to explain, unless he was in a bad temper. “Sometimes you belong to something larger and older, and it’s the name of the land and the first people who came before you, so it’s a title, like...”

He stopped and looked at Bilbo, before shaking his head.

“This is politics,” he said with some bitterness. “Have you understood anything?”

Bilbo was tempted to say _yes_ \- he had not understood how it worked, but he at least thought that he could guess how his master felt about it. But something in his master’s dark gaze suggested to Bilbo that it would be better to deny any understanding. He shook his head, and indeed the master seemed to relax.

“Don’t worry,” he said gently, “it’s not worth your time. All you must know is that I’m your master.”

Bilbo said nothing. He kept looking at the embroidered letter on the silk cravat, his head heavy with thoughts. When he spoke, he did so gingerly, like someone treading on foreign ground.

“Does one ever put a monogram on...living things?”

“On cattle, yes,” the master replied. Bilbo could feel the weight of his master’s gaze on him, but he kept his own eyes lowered and his hands on the desk. “Animals can be branded with a hot iron, to put a mark on their flesh.”

Bilbo drew his hands in his lap and there he circled his wrist with his fingers. He knew that he had been badly burnt when the master had created him. He did not remember all of it, but enough to dread burnings and be overly careful with flames of any kind and size. Therefore the very idea of the branding iron made him nauseous - he felt sure, even if the master had said nothing about it, that people could be branded like animals.

“Among men marks are just shown on garments,” his master said, maybe because he had noticed Bilbo’s unrest. “It doesn’t have to be a monogram or a name, it can be a combination of colour or a simple drawing, like the one you did of the pinecone. Something that you can recognise, so you know that a man owes his loyalty to another. That he belongs to someone.”

_Have I been branded?_ Bilbo wondered, his nails digging slightly into the flesh of his wrist.

He could not say, because he had not known what a mark or a monogram was before. Maybe the very same letters on his master’s cravat had been put on his body and only his ignorance had kept them hidden from him - not that Bilbo ever looked at his body, because the master took care of that. So, if there was any sign on him, he might not know yet.

“Bilbo, look at me,” his master ordered. He did so without thinking twice. The master was looking at him with some impatience, as if he had expected him to come up with some specific notion or proposition and Bilbo had failed to do it, so his master was forced to put it plainly. “Would you like to wear a monogram?”

Bilbo blinked. The master was still holding the silk cravat in his hands and his neck was paler than his face, especially against his dark beard. There was a white, thin line - Bilbo recognised it for a scar - running down his neck, and black hair showing from the opening of the shirt.

Normally the master had his own name around his neck, put on a cravat. Bilbo had never known it, but now he tried to imagine what it would be like to wear a monogram as well, to feel the weight of a name and carry it around all day. He touched his own neck, feeling his own scar - as thick and notched as his master’s was narrow and smooth. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Yes master, I’d like it,” he admitted. He did not dare look at his master, because he did not want to know whether he was pleased or disgusted with him for his answer. “I’d put _my_ monogram on my shirts, and on my cravat if I had one,” he said, without stopping to breathe. He could not keep his eyes closed anymore, so he saw the astonishment that had stolen onto his master’s face. “And I think...I think I’d like to be called master Baggins.”

 

*

 

_[excerpt from the diary of Doctor Thorin Eijkenskialdi]_

_November 5 th, 18--  _

_I cannot believe it. The cheek of asking such a thing of me, when I am his creator and he owes me his life._

_I wonder if I should have taken the time to remind him of the truth of his existence, but there are many details about his creation that I have not shared with him yet, and that he does not suspect. I taught him that I am his creator and he understands that I made him; how I did it, and how this is against all laws in nature, he does not know. He has no notion of what being born and raised as a human child means, and I believe that my own mind recoils from that comparison, so much so that I have never raised this topic with him so far. I will one day, but it’s still too early to discuss his origins and his future with him, when most of it is unclear to me._

_Yet, I fear that this lack of information and the fact that his social experience is limited to me and Dwalin will plant inopportune ideas in his head. Bright as he seems to be growing, he cannot help questioning his position and his limits; I might have impressed the idea of me being his superior upon his mind, but he’s not a sheep - he’s a wilder thing, bound to challenge my authority and my lessons._

_I suppose Dwalin would have reacted to his request by taking the whip to him. I would not have tolerated such cheek in a servant myself, but Bilbo is not a servant. Dwalin sometimes refers to him as a “pet” ~~, but a pet would not have so many thoughts~~._

_He is my creation, and I look upon him as an artist may look upon an imperfect, ugly work of his - with a mixture of contempt for the failure of his genius, and miserable fondness for the long hours of sorrow and exaltation that brought about such a pitiful result. I have never been an artist myself, but I guess painters burn their canvases and writers their books, while sculptors strike their work with the hammer; so I dream to strike him down to erase the proof of my failings, only to stay my hand once again._

_I do not wish to destroy him, and may whatever god above or beneath the Earth help me._

_So I did not beat him today, when he asked me to be called Master Baggins._

_That he could think of it is a terrible notion; that he could think of it in connection with the sight of my monogram is preposterous. I am ashamed to admit that I thought my explanations about the use of marks to declare one’s association would prompt him to wish to wear my monogram. Men and dogs wear marks of their masters - why shouldn’t he? I do not mean to make him wear a collar nor a livery, neither do I wish to brand him like a cow. But I would have taken into account the idea of giving him some token with my monogram, as a sign of goodwill on my part and obedience on his. If only he had asked it, I would have done it ~~, and it would have given me pleasure to have him bear my name~~._

_He did not ask though, and what is worse he did ask for something else - for his own monogram, and to be called Master Baggins. It took me by surprise to the point that I was unable to speak for several moments, choked with anger and disappointment. When I could talk without raising my voice, I found him deaf to my plain suggestion that his idea is foolish and perverse._

_He was trembling, but I’m not sure that it was only in fear of my reaction - I know he can tremble out of indignation, and he had this wilful look about him, as if he meant to wear my patience and my denial thin._

_Indeed he proceeded with telling me that he did not mean disrespect - I recognised this for servant’s talk, the kind of thing a master can get from a servant who has grown too smug and thinks he can talk back to his master as if it were nothing._

_“Is it not polite to call someone master?” Bilbo asked me then. Politeness is a word he feels most proud of, and it can convince him to replace a bad habit with a good one, as long as he can be persuaded that it will make him polite._

_It is extraordinary that a creature who has no real notion of society can hold its rules so dear. I ignore where this idea of gentility comes from, despite the fact that I do strive to conserve some standards of behaviour in his presence, because a great deal of learning is by imitation. I guess that his position is so exceptional that I cannot find a proper standard of behaviour to impress upon him - as I wrote before, he’s neither servant nor slave nor relative nor patient._

_He is my inferior, but of a kind I have never dealt with before._

_Anyway, I refused to answer his tendentious question. I had told him that he had to call Dwalin “master” as well, for this is the polite form of address due to him, but I had never thought that Bilbo would try to apply the same rule to himself. Before my silence, he stopped speaking. I could see that he had much more to say on the subject, but he’s biding his time - he has learnt, at least, to not press his cause untimely._

_It annoys me that he thinks he can win this battle. I’m not going to call him Master Baggins, as if I were greeting a little grocer in his shop, rather than my own creation in his cell._

_I would like to think that tomorrow this will be forgotten, and that Dwalin will not hear about it. Yet I feel almost sure that Bilbo will not let the matter rest. I can recognise the obstinate look he gets on his face when he does not mean to back down, and I do not feel thrilled at the idea of having to chastise him. ~~Actually I can feel some admiration for his boldness and I would probably find this business quite amusing, if I was not involved in it~~._

 

*

 

Thorin was right in that regard, since Bilbo did not allow him to forget the impudent request.

He repeated it the day after, and the day after that. At the beginning Bilbo took care to keep it from Dwalin, as if he wished it to be a secret between him and his master. But after a few days of unsuccessful attempts to raise the matter again - for Thorin had decided to not quarrel at all on the subject but just ignore it - he resorted to talking about it in Dwalin’s presence.

Dwalin’s rough laugh, followed by a shocked glance cast in his master’s direction, was the prelude of a long conversation between him and Thorin. It ended with a powerful headache on Thorin’s part, while Bilbo got what he wanted - now the matter would not rest, because both he and Dwalin wanted Thorin to take a stand, though on opposite sides.

In truth Thorin had already denied Bilbo’s request, but he had not destroyed what Dwalin called _the seed of rebellion_. So the creature kept trying, and his methods grew as bothersome as they were cunning.

Part of Thorin was vaguely impressed by how Bilbo had managed to work out for himself that neither tantrums nor brutality would help his cause; he had already measured his strength compared to Dwalin’s and Thorin’s, and though he could be quick of hands and a vicious opponent for his ability to slip from one’s hold, he was not a good enough fighter to hope to impose his will by force.

Besides, he must have thought long enough about it to realise that the point was proving that he _deserved_ such a form of address, in other words that his good behaviour was the best argument against Thorin’s rejection.

And indeed, when Thorin saw him behave so well and learn so much, he could not help thinking that Bilbo was growing into a finer being - more thoughtful and refreshing - than many a peasant or servant. He was making progress with his reading and writing, and could speak with great sense to the point that sometimes Thorin would be so engrossed in their conversation he completely forgot the strange nature of his pupil.

Thorin realised that being Bilbo’s teacher and creator doubly bound him to take pride in the creature’s higher understanding and skills. And all teachers tend to become fond of their best pupils, unless they feel envy at their success - but this Thorin could not, because there was pity in his heart at the knowledge of Bilbo’s disadvantages in the world.

In truth there were reasons in favour of calling Bilbo _Master_. First of all holding him to a higher standard would be an intriguing choice and it might help Bilbo’s progress rather than harness it. Besides, it would be interesting from a scientific point of view, because Thorin needed to know how far Bilbo’s conscience could travel in terms of shaping what people commonly call a _soul_. Last but not least, considering that Bilbo knew no society other than Thorin and Dwalin, it would represent a very small change in their small circle.

Yet there was some bitterness in Thorin’s refusal, quite different from Dwalin’s irritation and fears. At the bottom of Thorin’s heart, disappointment lay: he had hoped that Bilbo would be glad to be recognised as _his_. Bilbo’s request represented more than a form of politeness or a matter of rank; it was the creature’s will to affirm himself as separate from Thorin.

If naming the creature had given Thorin the pleasure of declaring his power and influence over him, now he was being asked to take a step back and give Bilbo a chance at a proper individual identity.

And in truth Thorin could not bring himself to relinquish the familiarity of calling the creature just _Bilbo_. He would not have liked to think of it as _intimacy_ , but it was the closest thing to intimacy that he had known in years, for Bilbo was something Thorin could observe at his leisure without worrying about the traditional social boundaries.

Even keeping company with a whore had its rules, but not Bilbo. Unique as he was, he offered Thorin the opportunity to learn about another being as he had never done before. He could examine his thoughts, his body, his desires in a completely different way, outside convention. It was difficult for Thorin to renounce it without a struggle, the way a rejected lover cannot help regretting the lost intimacy with his beloved.

Thus the fact that Thorin was starved of human contact and had worked himself into the bleakest isolation, sharpened his displeasure at his creature’s desire.  

“I want to be called Master Baggins, not anything different,” Bilbo had repeated the day before, when Thorin had lost his temper and raised his voice.

Thorin knew he should not have let the creature get under his skin, but he could not help noticing that Bilbo’s defiance revealed a considerable amount of strategy. He did not properly ignore Thorin or his orders, but he managed to answer with a noticeable and ever increasing delay, as if he could not remember why he should be addressed as _Bilbo_ rather than anything else. He did what he was told, but with such a suffering look upon him that Thorin felt his own mood turn surly in a matter of a few days.

When Thorin’s treatment became rougher, Bilbo simply retreated into himself, bearing harsh words and threats with lowered eyes and hunched shoulders. When Thorin tried to reason with him, explaining that there was no reason for them to change their habits, Bilbo stared and said nothing. But he made sure that each time Thorin used his name something showed his displeasure - whether it was a simple frown or the spoon falling from his fingers, a grammatical error or a stain on his clothes.

They were such minor details that Thorin could not accuse the creature of open animosity, neither could he bring himself to punish Bilbo for them - indeed he had grown averse to any kind of brutal or cold treatment toward his creature. Yet he was aware that Bilbo meant to carry on his silent struggle, embittering the time they spent together.

“It is time to take a look at you,” Thorin announced that morning, avoiding any kind of introduction or address. He was irritated with Bilbo and had come down to the laboratory later than usual. Dwalin had already taken Bilbo out of his cell and let him have a light breakfast while they waited for Thorin. “Go,” he said to Dwalin, since he knew that the cook needed some help to get to Hobbitburg for provisions - winter was drawing nearer and the forest was decked with the first snow of the season. “I will manage.”

Dwalin left, but not before picking up the creature and putting him onto the slab. Bilbo let Dwalin handle him without protesting. After all, visits had been part of their routine since the very beginning and along with his daily observations of Bilbo’s physical state, Thorin always found time for more in-depth visits once or twice a week depending on the general state of things. He liked to be reassured concerning Bilbo’s health and he preferred to take care of it personally, even if he could have let Dwalin proceed with part of the check-up.

So the procedure was far from unusual - neither enjoyable nor frightening, though sometimes Thorin suspected that Bilbo was starting to feel a little bothered by the constant attention on his body, while he usually did not mind the attention paid to his mind.

_It may be that he’s growing modest_ , Thorin mused, while he watched Bilbo shifting ever so slightly on the slab, clearly not impatient to undress. It did make sense considering Bilbo’s fondness for clothes and his pretence of gentility. Being left without clean clothes or being naked longer than necessary were punishments to Bilbo, so the idea that nakedness was wrong had been impressed upon him. For example, though he did not seem to mind the simple fact of being naked in Thorin’s presence, he preferred to take care of his clothes on his own rather than being stripped down or dressed up. It was a point upon which Thorin had almost always indulged the creature, and he usually let Bilbo undress at his own pace even for the visits.

Suddenly, a wicked thought struck Thorin’s mind, while he watched Bilbo’s fingers working on the first button of his nightgown.

“Stop,” he ordered. “I’m going to do it myself, Master Baggins.”

He savoured the astonished look on the creature’s face and the way he gaped without a quick answer on his tongue. Thorin felt pleased with himself - maybe he had found a way to cure the creature of his desire to be called _Master_ , if he managed to associate it with being handled and commanded.

So he moved closer, looming over the creature, and brought his hands to his nightshirt. Bilbo had gone stiff with annoyance and alarm, but said nothing. He was probably trying to figure out what was on Thorin’s mind, his eyes flickering from his master’s hands to his face and back. In truth Thorin did not mean any great mischief, but Bilbo did not need to know it - _let him be furious with me, since he has tested my patience of late._

The tiny buttons of the nightgown were a bother though. Thorin could not fathom why the local people were so fond of this kind of garment - one of those fussy, impractical habits Khazâd did not share.

What was the use of a piece of cloth that could not really keep anyone warm? And those little laces and ribbons, for males and females alike, so frail and yet slippery under his big fingers. Yet the creature liked it, so Thorin had let him keep the nightshirt among the other clothes Ori had brought from Hobbitburg.

Bilbo’s hands tried to bat his away.

“I said that I’d do it,” Thorin growled, spreading his fingers over Bilbo’s chest to stay him.

“You’re going to ruin it,” the creature protested meekly. “The buttons...” he began, his fingers crawling toward them to make quicker work of it. But Thorin shook his head.

“Stop, Master Baggins,” he repeated gravely. “Keep your hands by your side if you do not want me to cuff them, Master Baggins.”

The creature let his hands fall to his sides. _He has grown amusingly expressive_ Thorin thought when he looked at Bilbo - he did not really mean to do anything like cuffing him, but he had said it for the lazy pleasure of studying the change it had brought on Bilbo’s face. Now he could see the mixture of anxiety, annoyance, and shy pride Bilbo showed at being called _Master Baggins_ in such bizarre circumstances. _It must be different from what he has been dreaming of._

The small buttons finally gave in under Thorin’s fingers. One or two were a little loosened, but none fell off. He could hear the creature’s muffled complaint when he dragged the nightshirt over his head, hair and limbs caught in the process.

“Silent, Master Baggins,” Thorin grumbled. “Now, open your mouth.”

Bilbo pulled a face, but he knew better than to reply. They both knew that Thorin could have asked it _before_ undressing him. But annoying each other seemed to have become the point, and it was a game Thorin could play. He washed his hands with the water he had put on the fire. He took his time examining Bilbo’s teeth, his fingers probing them one by one, then he asked to see his tongue and pressed his thumb upon it to get a better look at the back of the creature’s throat.

“Good, Master Baggins, your throat is not sore despite your tendency to speak too much,” Thorin teased, enjoying the incensed glance it earned him. He felt Bilbo’s neck with both hands, measuring the pulse, checking if there was any stiffness about the jaw and the nape, but everything seemed well. He patted the creature’s shoulder. “Now lie down on your stomach, Master Baggins.”

It was another customary part of the visits, so Bilbo complied swiftly. The scar on his back was one of the worst, irregular and darkened as it was, like a monstrous serpent crawling its way up the creature’s spine. The skin around it was taut and almost translucent, as if it could tear at any time. Yet Thorin had taught himself to master his repulsion long enough to examine the scar every time, to reassure himself that it would hold and that there was no lingering infection despite its ugly look.

“Do you feel any soreness? Cramps? Something pulling?” Thorin questioned the creature, as usual. Bilbo shook his head, but kept his mouth shut. While his hands roamed over the creature’s back, fingers pressing and kneading, Thorin insisted: “Master Baggins, let me hear your voice. Do you have any pain?”

“I don’t,” Bilbo said, his voice strained and muffled, as he was pressing his face into his forearms.

With no little satisfaction, Thorin thought that the _Master Baggins_ business was growing stale for the creature as well. He continued his examination, checking the back of the creature’s knees and his too-large feet, then he parted his buttocks.

He could not help noticing that the flesh under his hands had become softer, this was also happening to the creature’s stomach and waist. _Master Baggins is growing fat_ , Thorin thought with amazement. It was not an impression he had thought at first when he started to notice a new roundness about Bilbo’s shape. The creature was putting on weight, and it was further proof that his body could change and adapt. Not only could it heal more or less like a human body would, but it could fatten and it grew hair (Thorin had to cut it a couple of weeks before because it had become too long and unkempt).

In other words, this unnatural body functioned like a natural one to the point that someone could be fooled about its creation - apart from Thorin, of course. And this added to his surprise, for he had not thought that he could create a body able to change in time. A functioning one, yes, he had hoped for that; but change also meant decay and aging, and sooner or later death.

Would the creature grow old the same way he was growing plump? The idea was terrifying and alluring at the same time.

For the moment Thorin could only feel the chunks of flesh under his fingers and marvel at the resourcefulness this body showed. He was glad to notice that Bilbo was as clean as he had taught him to be - actually, he had to warn Bilbo from scrubbing his most sensitive parts too much and too frequently. He could see that the skin between the two cheeks was a little reddened, a sure sign that the creature had taken care of cleaning himself as thoroughly as possible, knowing how far Thorin’s examination would go.  

“You should go gentler here, Master Baggins,” Thorin admonished him, his fingertips brushing gently the inside of the crease to make sure there was no abrasion. Bilbo gave a noncommittal sound. “Now for the last part, relax.”

Thorin coated one of his finger in sage oil. This part was never a favourite among patients, and a few times during his training years in Wien he had visited men who refused it flatly. He did not like it either, regardless of his personal taste for males, since examining a man’s prostate from a medical point of view bore scarcely any resemblance to sexual indulgences.

Bilbo was not exactly at ease, but the little strain the examination required was a small thing compared to other terrors, so Thorin had never met with any resistance.

First he took care of spreading the oil around the puckered ring, then pushed his finger inside, turning it slightly to ease the way and let the oil work its way in. The creature had already learnt how to ease the intrusion and Thorin patted his buttocks in approval.

“Some patience, Master Baggins,” he advised, “it’ll be over soon.”

Suddenly, with his finger burrowed inside the creature’s anus, Thorin was struck with the oddness of calling him _Master_. He had done it mockingly so far, but now the ordinariness of the title, in connection with his professional role, was warped by the absence of the customary limits between patient and medic.

So he felt strangely uneasy about having patted Bilbo’s - _Master Baggins’_ \- buttocks in a friendly gesture that would not have had any place with a proper patience; in fact examinations like this one required the deepest professional detachment, lest the patience be embarrassed and feel molested. There could be no cordiality nor warmth about touching a woman’s breast or a man’s testicles.

Annoyed with himself for allowing such thoughts when he had no one but himself to answer to the way he treated Bilbo, Thorin found the creature’s prostate. His check was accurate but swift, and he washed his hands again after it with a piece of cloth he also used to clean the residual traces of oil from between the cheeks. Then he spent some time checking Bilbo’s skull, his fingers flattening the curls and moving them aside to reveal the scar there.

“You can turn now, Master Baggins,” he said when he had finished.

Bilbo did nothing. Thorin frowned, wondering if the silly thing had fallen asleep - it had happened once or twice in the past, fond as Bilbo was of sleeping in the morning. But Bilbo’s eyes were squeezed shut, not simply closed.

“Are you in pain?” Thorin asked flatly, managing to hide the sudden leap of his heart at the idea that Bilbo was unwell. “Come on, turn,” he ordered again, while he closed his fingers around Bilbo’s upper arm to help him up.

“Master...”

It was spoken in a short breath, the voice a little hoarse. Thorin wondered if this was some kind of tantrum and Bilbo was retaliating for the teasing. His hold on Bilbo’s arm grew slightly rougher then and he tried to push the creature to roll on his back. There was some struggling, some slipping, and Thorin found himself hissing:

“You may turn now or spend the next hours strapped to the slab, naked, Master Baggins.”

The threat seemed to sober Bilbo up, despite the fact that Thorin regretted it the moment it left his mouth. He bit back the bitterness and self-reproach, and his grasp turned gentle again while he helped the now pliant Bilbo turn on his back. When it was done, Bilbo’s small hands grabbed the edge of the slab as if to steady himself, while his eyes were screwed shut again.

“It hurts,” he admitted in a pitiful voice.

Thorin stared. This was, indeed, a most unexpected first.

Bilbo’s small penis stood erect, the head peeking an angry red at the top, the testicles resting heavily between the slightly parted thighs. Thorin had never seen the creature’s genitalia respond to any kind of stimulation, despite the fact that he had examined them with the same care he reserved for any part of the creature’s body. And apparently it was a first for Bilbo as well, if the look of terror on his face was anything to go by.

Despite the fact that his mind was already working around the extraordinary notion that his creature possessed any kind of sexual impulse, or at least the mechanics of it were functioning and active, Thorin realised that he needed to reassure Bilbo about it first.

They had never talked about it - sexual talk was not a habit of the age, not even between a doctor and his patients, and even then only if strictly required and in the utmost confidence. Surely Doctor Eijkenskialdi’s views were daringly modern in this regard as in many others; he did not share many of his colleagues’ prejudices and pruderies, nor their ignorance about the sexual facts. Yet the need to speak with the creature about sexuality had not arisen before and now it was too late for a proper lesson - Bilbo would not listen while his blood was boiling, so Thorin kept it simple.   

“It is perfectly natural,” he said with all the gentleness he could muster. And it was more that he could even admit to himself, because the sight of Bilbo’s fright was enough to remind him of the young boy he had been once, and the terrors and doubts of his own sexual maturity. “Your body is only reacting to the way I have been touching it, and now it needs to discharge. It is no different from drinking too much and having to urinate,” he suggested, his gaze returning to Bilbo’s groin.

It looked like a regular erection, with all the common signs - stiffness, colour, the flush spreading on thighs and chest, the quickening of the breath. Thorin’s fingers itched to explore the exposed flesh to ascertain all details of what was happening, but he was stopped by the sight of Bilbo’s pupils larger than ever when the creature opened his eyes and looked pleadingly at his master.

“It...it burns. And weighs. It pulls,” Bilbo babbled, trying to describe the new feeling.

He was clearly finding it bothersome, though Thorin suspected that the creature was not experiencing the sort of shame a man in the same position would suffer. The novelty of the thing was enough to cause Bilbo some distress, since he did not know how to meet such an unknown need - it was trickier than urinating after all.

“It’s from my touching you inside,” Thorin explained quietly, though he had done it other times and this had never happened. Clearly something had changed about Bilbo’s body - _or between us_ , he thought wildly. He swallowed and tried to focus on the matter at hand: “There’s something inside you and pressing upon it tends to cause this kind of reaction. Has this ever happened before? At night, for example? Or in the morning, when you wake up.”

“No, master,” Bilbo shook his head, while he took the briefest glance at his erection. The sight scared him enough, because he turned his head to the side, brusquely enough to hit the slab with his cheek and temple. “Please...” he moaned, while his feet shuffled nervously, heels dragging along the slab. “I feel sick.”

“Hush, you’re not sick, I promise. In fact it’s a good sign, it means you’re healthy in that regard. You have only to follow the natural course set by your body.”

“I don’t...I don’t know how,” Bilbo admitted sheepishly.

“You see, in your testicles here...” Thorin cupped the creature’s stones with one hand. They were warm and heavy, one slightly larger than the other, but well shaped. The touch was enough to make Bilbo’s body arch, and it reminded Thorin of the night he had created him, and the electricity running through those limbs. He took a deep breath. “Here your semen has been stored. It’s a white liquid that must come out, then you’ll feel better.”

Thorin experimentally rolled the testicles in his palm, and saw the creature spread his legs a little wider, without even realising it.

“Now, can you touch yourself, Master Baggins?” Thorin asked, raising his brow. “It will be done in a short time. You must wrap your hand around the shaft and move it up and down, not too forcibly, until your semen comes out.”

He looked up to the creature’s face and saw that it was ugly with terror and queer excitement. Bilbo did not seem able to pry his hands off the edge of the slab, as if he could not consciously move except for those jerks and shudders he had no command over.

Considering how it was, Thorin sighed and took his hands away from Bilbo’s groin. He poured some oil in his palm, slicking it before closing his hand around the creature’s penis. The engorged flesh was taut and very hot, and the slightest touch tore a string of guttural groans from Bilbo’s throat. Thorin did not mind them, the way he would not have minded a bitch’s whimpers while his dog mounted it - or so he would tell himself later, when he recorded what had happened in his diary.

He uncovered the head with ease, observing the bulb glistening with moisture. There was a good amount of natural lubrication - that was a good sign, together with the ordinary look of the glans even in its turgid and reddened state. The small opening at the top felt elastic when he moved the tip of his finger against it - Bilbo howled then, and almost tried to escape the touch.

Thorin put a hand on his stomach to keep him pinned in place.

“Patience, Master Baggins,” he said warmly, holding Bilbo’s gaze and trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “Let me help you to feel less bothered: now lie down and be quiet.”

It was with the dispassionate carefulness of his professional interest that Thorin touched him. In the past he had had to explain how to masturbate to a few patients, but this was more than he had ever done for them - though he did not think about it at the time, because he was more focused on checking the state of Bilbo’s body. He moved his hand at a regular rhythm, neither slow nor quick, beating his time with the creature’s breath and adding just a little twist of his wrist (he unconsciously mimicked the sort of motion he applied to himself in the privacy of his bathroom when he needed to unload).

He saw the head appear and disappear in his fist, and drops of sweat gathering on Bilbo’s skin. It was with a strangled cry and a furious jerk of hips that the creature experienced his - presumably - first orgasm. The semen was not much, but it dripped down Thorin’s hand and Bilbo’s stones, moistening the fair, thin tuft of hair growing at the base.

When Thorin cleaned his hand with a cloth and made to do the same with Bilbo’s groin, he found that the penis had turned flaccid and was losing its colour.

“It will soon return to its normal state,” he told Bilbo, while he dabbed at his genitalia with the cloth and made the creature hiss softly. “It’s not very complicated, is it? Now you know what you must do if it happens again.”

“Will it happen again?” Bilbo asked in a whisper.

Thorin could not say if the creature was still frightened or anxious to repeat the experience; probably just confused for the moment, as Thorin remembered he had been when his time had come in his teens. But he had no idea how it had felt for Bilbo and if he was really able to experience sexual pleasure like a man would do. There had been an erection and it had worked out as Thorin would have expected, all the signs of ordinary sexual gratification were there, yet he could not be completely sure about Bilbo’s experience.

And the desire to know burnt inside Thorin, but it was mingled with another thought - the idea of simply taking the creature into his arms and keeping him safe from all the complications and pains a sexual awakening could bring. So, despite the fact that he had not found proper excitement in such a dealing, he now felt as tender as a lover feels after love-making.  

“I don’t know,” he confessed, a little sharply to stifle that treacherous softness in his heart. “Maybe.” Then he noticed that the creature’s whole body had become limp and his eyelids were heavy. “Come on, Master Baggins, you can take some rest in your own bed now,” he decided, feeling that he could at least carry Bilbo to the cell, rather than make him walk to it.


	8. Something at Work

_“There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.”_

The road was thick with tenacious mud, made from decaying leaves and squashed snow; it clung to the wheels of the cart and encrusted the mule’s legs, and heavy drops fell on the driver’s and the passenger’s capes as well. The amount of snow on the road would increase the closer they got to the castle, since the path was less frequented further on and surely no one had cleaned it while they were away.

They were silent for the first part of the route leaving the burg for the forest, while the cart passed farms, small clusters of shacks, country shrines. Neither of them cared to talk, because they had both felt lighter during their short stay in Hobbitburg, and now they were ashamed at their gladness for getting away from Ered Luin for some time. They had enjoyed the days they had spent at the last great market of the year; they had drawn hard bargains and haggled for hours, but also discussed the quality of the fleeting year’s crop, appraised cows and pigs, listened to the news from Pest, cleaned beer foam from their beards after roaring with laughter at a bawdy song intoned by a travelling juggler.

The good citizens of Hobbitburg were wary of people of Khazâd blood, so Dwalin and Bombur were often treated with a sort of polite wariness, still they could always find a few men who cared little for the social bane laid upon Khazâd and did not mind making business or sharing a pint of ale with them. In truth it would have been better if they could have been prompter with the payments, but at least they had managed to settle most of the expenses, though at the cost of no small amount of deprivations.

On the brighter side, Master Dori had let them sleep in his house and refused to let them pay him for it, so they had saved on the lodgings. Dori had been a generous host, serving them hot coffee, eggs, and spiced sausages in the morning, and taking care that a pot of tea and a jar of cookies always appeared on the table when Dwalin and Bombur were around. Besides, Bombur suspected that Master Dori’s respectability and good name - something Dori had built in a lifetime of decent and humble behaviour - had reflected upon them and made the Hobbitburg merchants more sympathetic.

“Master Dori has built a good life for himself and his brother there,” Bombur mumbled, before a bump in the road shook the cart so hard that his teeth rattled. “I heard that the other brother got away from Hobbitburg to seek fortune elsewhere, but Master Dori never speaks about him so I didn’t ask. Though I remember him from when we were boys.”

He heard Master Dwalin grunt noncommittally. Bombur knew that the man disliked gossip, especially from a servant, and thus never encouraged but rather chastised it. Bombur himself, though he did appreciate a good talk, was not prone to slander. However, this time he felt that this was as good a chance as he could hope to ever get to speak frankly with Master Dwalin, and his mind would feel much more at ease for that.

Or at least he hoped so.

He had started to talk about Dori and his business in Hobbitburg as an opening to what he really wished to say, but Dwalin was not making things easy for him. He was sitting on the box seat with a firm hold on the reins, eyes steady on the road - Dwalin never gave the impression that he could manage more than one thing at a time, as if all his sharp, rapacious attention could focus only on a single task.

Bombur found it a little intimidating, so he fell silent again while he reflected on how he could broach the subject with the other man.

The road turned quite sharply, plunging into the skirts of the forest and leaving behind the sight of the tiny cottages the shepherds had already vacated for the season. The morning light dimmed, surrounded as they were by the tall fir trees, and the air itself grew colder, smelling of snow and resin. Thus the world turned white and grey, and eerily silent except for the creaking of the cart swaying on its wheels and the hollow thumping of the mule’s hoofs.

Suddenly the vision of the castle waiting for them cast a gloomy shadow upon their thoughts. Dwalin’s shoulders sagged a little, while Bombur felt an emptiness gather in his large belly. He would have liked to be back in Master Dori’s house taking his black coffee and boiled eggs with plenty of salt, rather than sitting in the back of the cart surrounded by barrels and sacks of provisions that were just enough to pass the Winter.

Yet it was no use thinking such things; they must return and they would. Bombur tried to cheer himself up with the thought of what he would cook for dinner and how he would spend the night baking while he told Bofur, Bifur, and Ori what he had seen and heard in town. _Speaking of which_...

“Can I speak freely?” Bombur asked Dwalin, reckoning that it would be better to talk than remain silent any longer on the subject.

This time the other man turned his head and cast Bombur a suspicious glance - freedom was another thing Dwalin did not appreciate in a servant. However, Dwalin nodded his consent and Bombur cleared his throat twice before he began.

“I heard things in town about Master Thorin.” Dwalin said nothing. Bombur could not tell if he was too surprised to reply, though he feared that this was not the case, it was instead the sort of silence of a man who does not wish to compromise himself with hasty words. “On the first day I came upon a couple of peasants talking about him,” Bombur went on, “they didn’t know me so they spoke quite carelessly though I was close by, and they thought me intent on examining their crops. They said that Ered Luin must have fallen under a curse, and they signed themselves while they were saying it. They also said, but they seemed more uncertain about it and unwilling to admit to believing such things, that the master of the castle is ravenous for blood and bleeds their cows at night, so that they fall ill and perish in a few days.”

“I heard a shepherd say that our master died years ago, that he’s a _revenant_ ,” Dwalin replied sharply. “We must not concern ourselves with the foolish beliefs of idle peasants and shepherds.”

 _Sounds like the sort of thing Master Thorin would say_ , Bombur thought, because he knew the master for a man who held the beliefs of simple folk in great contempt. It was not Bombur’s place to argue about it, but he had always thought that the young master was too arrogant - well, in truth all Durins had been the same, but they had had the right of money and authority, while Master Thorin only had his _science_ and his great bearing.

“The same day,” Bombur continued, undeterred by the cold contempt in Dwalin’s voice, “a merchant asked me if it is true that the master of Ered Luin has grown...” he hesitated for a moment, because he did not like to speak such a word, even if he was but reporting it, “ _demented_ , for he would have liked to take a look at the house, should there be something to buy. I felt offended, but before I could reply another man, one who sits on the local council at the burgomaster’s side, warned me about saying too much, for sooner or later Master Thorin might be called to answer for his deeds and then I might regret my words.”

This time Dwalin’s shoulders tensed and Bombur knew that he had hit the mark.

“No one is going to arrest the heir of the Durins and bring him before a court,” Dwalin spat, but he sounded more enraged than confident.  

“I also heard the chemist suggest that Master Thorin’s research is of such a nature that an honest man would be repelled to think of it. He said that...” Bombur’s tone wavered, but only for a moment. “...that you and Master Thorin have been seen wandering at strange hours, and a few times you were caught close to...to burial places. He said that there are laws against it.”

“Against what?” Dwalin asked brusquely.

Bombur felt all blood drain from his cheeks. He was not a coward, and like his brother and his cousin he liked to speak his mind - it was a family trait that in Bofur became carelessness and in Bifur became a powerful and sometimes dangerous drive, but in Bombur was closer to honesty and a desire to relieve his conscience. But he had been a cook all his life and instinctively felt that in a better world he would not have to speak of such things aloud. Yet things were what they were, so he had to discuss his master’s business with his master’s henchman, because he felt that his master’s choices were pushing the whole household toward a ruinous fall.

“Against practicing with the dead,” Bombur managed to say at last.

“The man is a liar,” Dwalin said bluntly. “You should have told me sooner, before leaving town. I would have broken his nose.”

“But suppose...” Bombur mumbled, “...just _suppose_ that there was some truth in that man’s words, and that the master’s doings were prohibited by the law. Suppose that the master knew what is best, and he’s a doctor, he studied in Wien and met many excellent men of science, or so the papers wrote years ago, before he went to war - we kept the papers you know, we servants have always been keen to know how the family was doing, even when they didn’t come hunting. Master Balin your brother was always kind enough to send us the papers together with his orders if there was talk about the Durins. We had this picture of Master Frerin in his uniform and he was the most charming lad one could imagine, so all the maids were fond of him and one of them had to be sent away because she was languishing for him. But I don’t mean to ramble...” Bombur scratched his head, where his hair had grown thinner. “I meant that if Master Thorin did something forbidden by the law he probably knows what he’s doing, this is what I think.”

“I’m not an educated man myself,” Dwalin interrupted him. This time his voice was gentler, as if he was talking to himself. “While he can see things we could not even imagine. Education does that to you, I’m told.”

“Would you...would you warn him then?” Bombur asked.

The mule brayed, maybe because Dwalin had given an unexpected tug to the reins. He grunted a few comforting words for the beast, then he turned toward Bombur. Dwalin’s brows were knitted together while he searched Bombur’s face for - Bombur thought - _signs of deception_. At last, Dwalin smacked his lips and his eyes flew back to the road winding between the high pillars of trees.

“Are you not afraid for yourself and your kin?” Dwalin asked.

“I am,” Bombur admitted without hesitation. He even nodded, despite the fact that the other man was not looking at him anymore. “I fear things could get very bad for all of us if people in Hobbitburg thought that there was something wrong with Master Thorin’s doings. They could send the bailiff to Ered Luin, or worse - they could send soldiers. They could burn the castle like they...like they did _elsewhere_ ,” he murmured. Bombur had never been to Ereburg, but he had heard things that made his skin crawl just to think of them.

“Cook,” Dwalin said warningly, because it was the way of the house to call the cook by his position rather than by his name. “Cut it short and tell me what you want. Do you want to move to another place?”

“Work for someone else you mean?” Bombur asked, and it was indeed a thought he and his brother had been harbouring and discussing for some time - not Bifur, Bifur never said a word about it. “I suppose we could find work elsewhere, if we tried,” he mused, nodding to himself. “But the fact, Master Dwalin, is that my brother and I have been at Ered Luin since we were children, and our dad and our mum worked for the old master. And their dads and mums before them. We have always served the Durins and I think we would be unhappy elsewhere. Or maybe not, but we are growing old and we wouldn’t like to leave our home. Yes, we’d like to have a fire in every room, and better flour for our bread; we’d like to see good people come to Ered Luin, and hear the horns ring as frequently as they did when we were lads and my mother chased me around the kitchen because I had snatched one of her pastries right from the oven.”

Bombur paused, but since Dwalin said nothing he carried on.

“I know it must be different for you, because you were not born here and so you might hope to find yourself elsewhere. And you’re Master Thorin’s _friend_ ,” he added, hoping that Dwalin would not resent him such a word, “while we’re just servants. But we wouldn’t like to serve in another house unless the master wishes to send us away.”

“We couldn’t do without servants, the house needs tending,” Dwalin grunted.

“But if soldiers came to Ered Luin or the roof fell on our heads, there wouldn’t be any house to tend to. We need...the house needs money and peace,” Bombur sighed. “People out there don’t like us - us Khazâd I mean. So it’s better if we stick together, other people wouldn’t understand our dreams of the past and the Empire would just swallow us whole. So, will you warn him?” Bombur asked for the second time.

“I will,” Dwalin said curtly.

Silence fell between them, because Bombur felt that he had said all he could and was unwilling to say more. Maybe he should have spoken about Bifur’s suspicion that young Ori had been sent to spy on them. Yet Bombur liked the lad and was sorry for him, since he could see that Ori felt sorely misplaced at Ered Luin. _He’s just curious and needs some entertainment_ he said to himself, trying to dismiss Bifur’s opinion. After all Master Dori had been nothing but courteous toward them, so there was no reason to think that he had sent his younger brother - of whom he was clearly very fond and proud - on such a vile mission.

Therefore Bombur decided not to talk about it to Dwalin, because he did not want to land him in trouble. He was a good lad, sweet and polite when he was not sulking over Bofur’s teasing or the rain that forced them inside the castle for days at a time, but he could reveal an unexpected temper and that would not bode well with Master Dwalin, who had a temper himself.

“If the time came...” Dwalin suddenly said, startling Bombur out of his thoughts. “If the time came,” he repeated, “would you help? You and your family, would you help?”

“Help with what?” Bombur asked, trying not to shiver.

“Don’t worry about that,” Dwalin replied, shrugging. “If you were asked...”

“If we were ordered, we would,” Bombur said cautiously.

Dwalin gave a choked laugh and shook his head.

“That’s all I can ask I suppose,” he admitted.

“You think that we may find Master Thorin’s orders...unpleasant,” Bombur commented.

“I think that every man has his limits, and I’d like to know yours and your brother’s, and your cousin’s.”

“Does any man knows his limits before he meets them?” Bombur asked.

“No, he doesn’t. I don’t happen to know mine,” Dwalin admitted after a moment of silence.

“Then we’ll all decide when the time comes,” said Bombur, and neither of them remarked on the fact that he had said _when_ and not _if_.

 

*

 

Thorin was pleased with himself. He had learnt his lesson and not pushed the creature’s limits as he had done that first time he had taken Bilbo out; he had made himself gentler and more patient, and probed the creature’s reactions day after day. He had also found that he did not mind waiting for Bilbo to adjust to the new stimuli, because it meant that he had more time to analyse the creature’s response - _to savour it_ , he had written in his diary, though he had crossed out the verb and substituted it with a more scientific one.

Yet he could not help enjoying the rapt attention Bilbo dedicated to everything going on outside the window, which had been the first step in Thorin’s new plan to acquaint the creature with the world. To this end he had repaired the flight of stairs leading to one of the narrow windows in the tower.

Stairs were a novelty to Bilbo, but he had learnt to ascend them despite the fact that he feared heights. He would never climb without Thorin behind him watching over his steps, but he would enjoy his time up there, sitting on the window sill with his face pressed against the iron grate, and Thorin on the landing ready to answer all his questions.

Thorin had thought that Bilbo would soon grow weary of the sight from the window. It was not really picturesque, since it only showed a large portion of the forest, a sea of tree tops sprinkled with snow, and a small glimpse of the mountain side farther away. It was impossible to see the sky properly, since the iron grate blocked the view and one could not lean forward enough to catch sight of anything else.

On the contrary, Bilbo found a never-ending series of details to focus on. Each one being something he had never seen before - whether a bird or the shadow of a cloud - could occupy his thoughts and his tongue for a long time.

“You have a keen eye, Master Baggins,” Thorin had admitted, and he had smiled at Bilbo’s evident pleasure at the praise.

Thorin had wondered if there was something supernatural in the sight or hearing of the creature, but he had concluded that Bilbo’s senses were sharp, but only as sharp as a man’s senses can be. _I could make a good hunter out of him_ , Thorin thought wryly. His family had always favoured hunting as entertainment, but he had not been hunting in a long time; killing men in war had taken all pleasure away from killing beasts, and though he still appreciated a dish of roasted meat, he preferred to leave the hunting to Dwalin.

If the window had offered a good starting point, Thorin had also taken care to encourage Bilbo to walk around the tower. This had served two purposes, the first one was keeping the creature’s muscles in shape, now that he felt sure that Bilbo’s body could fatten and grow like any other; secondly, it had been an excuse to relieve Bilbo of the chain attached to his ankles.

Thorin had not wanted to make too much of it. He had feared that if Bilbo’s mind lingered on the change it would supply dangerous thoughts and reflections about the increasing freedom he had been granted lately, and desire for a greater freedom to come. It had been better to justify the choice of removing the chains with how they would have impeded Bilbo’s movements. It was the safest point of view, and Thorin felt more entitled to the decision if he considered its practical gain.

There was still a great deal of stiffness and awkwardness to Bilbo’s movements though. His joints never seemed to work quite right, his gait was often unbalanced, and he had a way of keeping his shoulders hunched as if he was carrying a great weight upon them or waiting for a blow. But slowly he was learning to work around the hazards of his body, and at least he was quick of hand and wit. He would never possess what people consider a _healthy look_ , but he was learning the limits of his body and how to make them work for him.

On the other hand, Bilbo’s fear of heights was a mystery to Thorin, since he could not relate it to anything that had happened. While the creature’s fear of fire was clearly connected to the burns he had suffered on the night of his birth, nothing accounted for his trembling if Thorin was not close enough when they ascended the stairs. It was fascinating from a scientific point of view, because it suggested that Bilbo’s likes and dislikes did not necessarily owe to experience or association of ideas.

“Why are you so afraid of heights?” Thorin had asked him once.

“I could fall.”

It stood to reason, but Thorin was unsatisfied with the answer. It meant that Bilbo was able to grow afraid of things not because he had experienced any pain about them before, but because he guessed that they _could_ hurt him. Possibilities scared Bilbo, like they scare most human beings, and this was something Thorin loathed - for he was a man who dared to think the impossible possible, and such a man could not allow himself to be afraid of possibilities. So he had wanted his creature to be at the service of Reason, and still much of Bilbo seemed prone to irrationality.

It was as if Thorin had planted an apple tree and found himself with acorns instead, the plant constantly sprouting fruits he had not expected - emotions, inner struggles, aversions...the whole curse of being human befalling his creature.

And what was worse was the winning, engrossing quality Thorin had to grudgingly recognise in this side of Bilbo.

 

There was a fine mist rising from the ground, and the layer of snow covering it in patches was moist and shimmering. The sun had unexpectedly come out, despite the grey dawn Thorin had witnessed from the windows of his room. It was the sort of sun one could get for a few days in winter, hard and sharp like a knife cutting through the trees and carving golden paths in the forest.

It burnt the eyes and the skin, but it felt good after the white and grey spell of many days of sleet. The very forest came alive to it, despite the fact that the sun would melt the snow, and then it would freeze again - ice would damage plants and make the ground more treacherous than ever; yet it was good as long as it lasted. Birds and small animals dug under the melting snow looking for food, and the noises they made rang joyous among the fir trees. Deer appeared between the trees - graceful shadows trembling in the steam coming from the ground, a pair of great horns swaying regally.

Bilbo was speechless with awe, still by his master’s side.

Thorin was tempted to move aside the hood that covered the creature’s head to study Bilbo’s expression. Before he could dismiss the thought, Bilbo’s hands grabbed his arm, making Thorin flinch. He could not remember many times when Bilbo had touched him neither in struggle nor obedience, but as a result of an emotion which was his own.

It was strange, unpleasant - for Bilbo’s fingers dug painfully into his arm - yet not unwelcome. Bilbo wore no chains, so it was good to know that he sought Thorin’s guidance nonetheless.

“It’s all right,” Thorin murmured, tilting his head to catch a glimpse of Bilbo’s face.

He could not though - that was obviously the point of the hood. Since Thorin had decided it was time for another short walk outside, and that it had to be during daytime, he had taken precautions. He had found some specious work for the servants: cleaning rooms which they were not going to use even ten years from now, floors to scrub clean of the dirt accumulated, empty stables to wash from floor to ceiling. If he was lucky they would curse him, but they would not leave the castle on a walk. People from Hobbitburg seldom happened around here this season, but there was always the dangerous chance of a hunter, a wanderer, or a shepherd crossing their path, so it was better to be prepared for that and conceal as much of Bilbo’s body as possible.  

He had made Bilbo wear an old coat of his, using a belt to adjust it well enough for the creature not to trip on the hem at every step. He had also given him woollen gloves and convinced him to cover at least his ankles with trousers longer than the ones Bilbo preferred - how Bilbo could manage not to hurt his naked feet or suffer from the cold was a secret Thorin had not discovered yet, but he supposed that there was something wrong with the sensitivity of the creature’s feet.

“It is...” Bilbo began, but then he stopped and shook his head.

He was pleased though, this Thorin could guess from his voice, because he had learnt to be watchful for the different kinds of tone the creature could use.  

“You are very fortunate, Master Baggins,” Thorin hummed. “This is a fine day, maybe the finest we will get till next year. Come, let’s walk together.”

Bilbo only nodded and they moved forward. Now the creature’s hold on Thorin’s arm grew loose, but did not fade away. Bilbo did not properly lean on him, it was rather as if he desired to be sure that Thorin was at his side; after all, the hood not only hid him from strangers, but also deprived him of his side-vision and muffled sounds. At least he was not trying to lower it, a sign that he meant to obey Thorin’s strict orders regarding their walk - _never leave me, never take off any of your clothes, do not raise your voice, never leave me_.

Even Thorin felt himself relax a little while they stepped among the trees. Bilbo was still quiet, as if he needed to gather as much as possible about what he was experiencing before talking it through with Thorin. Yet Thorin felt sure that the creature would turn to him at last and he probably would have a headache by the time he got to bed that night. For the moment though, Thorin was only amused and slightly impatient.

He could sense that this time the creature would not succumb under the strike of his senses, as he had done the first time. Their lessons at the window had been a good training, and Bilbo’s excitement had a far more governable quality. He was docile to Thorin’s guidance and even the flashes of light through the branches did not seem to worry him, so that Thorin dared to steer their steps toward a small clearing nearby.

Mist curled over the ground and there was a sudden confusion of black wings and hoarse cries when a pack of ravens took flight at their arrival.

Bilbo shuddered in surprise, but then he raised his eyes to follow the birds that speckled the shreds of sky visible from the clearing. His hand slipped away from Thorin’s arm, as if he had suddenly forgotten his master. Thorin frowned without realising it, but then Bilbo turned toward him.

His eyes were full of wonder, his cheeks reddened against the fur lining.

“Is that the sky then?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s the sky at daytime,” Thorin confirmed. “Do you find that it matches my description?” he asked, maybe a little teasingly.

But Bilbo missed the hint of irony in his voice, for he was very serious when he replied:

“I find that the sky has the colour of your eyes.”


	9. Thy Adam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, it is taking me some time to answer to all your lovely comments....unfortunately things at work are absolutely crazy right now and I don't have much spare time. But I'll answer to every single comment as soon as possible!

_“I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel...”_

 

“Were you born in a tower?”

The question, in retrospect, should not have surprised him. They had been perusing one of Thorin’s scientific books, a tome as large as Bilbo’s chest and filled with coloured drawings of plants and animals. It was one of the most beautiful books in the library at Ered Luin, if not the most scientifically advanced.

Thorin had received it as a gift when he was a boy, but he had not truly appreciated it at the time despite the fine illustrations it contained. His interest in science had come later on - back then, Thorin had been keener on dreams of chivalry, and of glory and treasures to win in battle, than on studying the living species.

So while he had been learning to ride and spar with his brother Frerin, the book had been forgotten. Later on, someone must have thought to take it to Ered Luin to entertain the children on a rainy day, a frequent occurrence in the region. At Ered Luin the book had waited for years among the other volumes in the small library of the castle, far more modest than the one they had had in Erebor.

Thorin had found it while he had been looking for books to show to Bilbo. The creature’s reading skills were improving, so he needed more books to read and new texts to copy word by word to practice his writing as well.

Unfortunately Bilbo’s knowledge and understanding were not deep enough to tackle the more complex essays and works which represented most of Thorin’s private collection - the ones he had been able to take with him to Ered Luin, and the ones he had been buying over the last few years after the war, sending for them as far as Wien and Paris in the hope that they would contain the revelation he was looking for and the knowledge he so strenuously sought.   

Such treatises were sometimes hard enough for Thorin himself, while Bilbo needed to acquire the most basic knowledge. Therefore the number of books the creature could read was very limited, and Thorin was already running out of alternatives in that regard. At last he had found this book about the natural world and the pictures were charming enough, though not very precise. But while Thorin had to raise his brow in open disapproval regarding a few liberties the artist had taken, the blunders did not threaten Bilbo’s learning, nor his pleasure in the pretty colours and elegant lines of the drawings.

Even Thorin felt that his displeasure in the inaccuracy of the book was lessened by the creature’s evident enjoyment. Thorin would have been unable to pinpoint the time when he and Bilbo had fallen into such a comfortable mood, but it was true that their relationship had acquired a sort of balance and lost part of its strained, wary nature. It even possessed, Thorin was willing to admit to himself, a few perks of its own, like the fact that Bilbo’s company represented an unexpected diversion while Ered Luin was cut off from the world by the endless fall of snow which had not known a day of rest since mid-December. Somehow, Bilbo was lessening the loneliness which Thorin had never truly acknowledged.

Thus the first day of the New Year saw them sitting together by the fireplace in Thorin’s quarters, and there was a smile tugging at the corner of Thorin’s lips at Bilbo’s naivety.

“I wasn’t born in a tower.”

Bilbo’s fingers were gingerly touching the illustration showing types of seeds, and how plants are born from them. They had just talked about the difference between animals that lay eggs and animals that carry their offsprings in their body. And since _he_ was born in a tower, Bilbo thought that Thorin might be as well, like all flowers and trees come from seeds.

 _A logical conclusion_ , Thorin thought amusedly.

At his reply, Bilbo’s eyes narrowed and a little crease appeared on his forehead.

“I was born in a tower,” he said, but there was a question underlying his statement.

Considering that Thorin had been waiting for that question since that night months ago, when he had decided that he would not raise his hand against his creature, he felt incredibly calm, though the answers he would give Bilbo might determine his character and outlook on life as nothing had ever done before, leaving the deepest impression on the creature’s mind.

And there was the possibility that Bilbo’s feelings toward him would change. Something that did not suit Thorin, since he had grown used to the creature’s regard for him, to his obedience and his awe, as well as to his increasing anxiety to please his master. If Thorin had truly looked into his heart, he would have found that Bilbo’s earnestness was soothing his wounded pride - in other words that it was the first time, since the fall of the Durins’ fortunes, that Thorin felt himself treated according to his birth and his lineage. Like a _master_ indeed, and more than that, because he had created Bilbo and held his life in his hands quite literally.

The loss of Bilbo’s fealty would hurt Thorin more than he was willing to admit.

Yet, while they were warming themselves at the fire burning in Thorin’s own rooms, surrounded by open books and papers scattered on the low table and the floor alike, Thorin felt that he could trust Bilbo with the truth about his origin - or at least part of the truth.

“You were not _born_ in the common sense of the word, like a seed falling from a tree or a foal leaving the mare’s womb,” Thorin began, his eyes studying the creature’s face with keen attention. “You were created.”

Bilbo’s nose twitched slightly and he pushed his tongue against his cheek.

“I don’t understand the difference. I know that you’re my creator and I...I thought that the tree created the seed, and the mare the foal. The book doesn’t say that,” he admitted, glancing down at the pages. “No book says that. No book speaks of _creation_ ,” he seemed to realise, all of a sudden.

“No, these books are about the works of nature. In nature everything is born from something. Creation, on the contrary, is the work of men.”

 _And the work of God_ , another would have said. Yet Thorin Eijkenskialdi had never put his faith in that Christian _Gott_ , though he had exhibited the perfunctory habits of a pious man when being accepted into society in Wien seemed to require it. Habits he would shrug off with ease the very moment he was alone, almost without realising how deceitful he had become for the sake of the _beau monde_. At the same time he had never turned back to the theology of his own people, despite the fact that the colourful tales of the Khazâd tradition had been the first explanations about the world he had ever heard, fed to him by his grandmother for most of his childhood.

That epic but quirky set of tales had apparently faded in the stark light cast by Thorin’s new god - _Science_. As blind as passionate men can be, he had never understood the reasons behind the rebukes he had suffered at the hands of his fellow scientists for his research. It was not that his views were too advanced, but that they possessed an alarming quality: they were pagan and brutal, closer to the mindset of his ancestors than to that of the current scientific world.

So Thorin called himself an atheist and a son of the Enlightenment, but his dream of a new mankind was an echo of the love Khazâd had for crafting and invention, starting from their first tale of _Mahal_ the god-smith, while Thorin’s obsessive devotion to science stemmed from the same tree that had fed the frequent goldlust and the less frequent bloodlust of many a leader down to the roots of his Khazâd ancestry.

Thorin might have rejected the Christian resurrection, yet here he was, unconsciously re-enacting the traditional Khazâd tale of _Durin the Deathless who conquered death_ and setting himself as the god who could bring his loved ones back to life.         

 

“I wasn’t born, but created,” Bilbo said slowly. “You did it. Who created you?”

“That’s the point, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, as gently as possible. “ _I_ was born, because men are usually born from their mothers, more or less like the foal from the mare. You were created by me though.”

“We are different then.” Thorin held his breath, but Bilbo gave a nervous chuckle and looked ashamed at himself. “It’s not that I ever thought we were the same. I wouldn’t...dare. I knew you were my master, I think it was the first thing I ever knew. That and the fire. When I was...” he frowned “at the beginning I mean. When I was...no, when you created me. And this thing will never change, like...like...”

“The mountains?” Thorin suggested, because he knew that Bilbo had some difficulty with the concept of a long time - _never, always_ were such slippery concepts compared to his brief existence.

“Like the colour of your eyes,” Bilbo said instead, gravelly. “So I know that you are more than me and I suspect Dwalin is closer to being like you than I am. You said _usually_.”

“When?”

“You said men are _usually_ born from their mothers. What does that mean?”

“ _Always_ , I meant always,” Thorin said abruptly. “All men are born from mothers with the contribution of their father .”

“But I...”

Thorin said nothing. He did not take his eyes off the creature. He could not guess what Bilbo was going to do, once he realised. So Thorin’s muscles were tense, ready to snap if he had to restrain the creature and keep him from hurting himself or others - and the former option had become no more preferable than the latter in Thorin’s mind.

Bilbo did not move though. Seconds stretched by and the creature was as still as a statue, unblinking. The firelight fell upon half his face, revealing the end of the scars running along his forehead and jaw, and the brown eye staring without seeing. But the other half of Bilbo’s face was in shadow, with only the blue-grey eye shining dimly in the firelight.

“I am not a man.”

Bilbo’s voice was collected, if a little husky. Thorin felt the impulse to touch the creature’s face and move it completely under the light. He did not though, guessing that it would be pushing the boundaries. He tried to sound calm when he replied:

“No, you aren’t.”

“What...” Bilbo started, but Thorin spoke first, because there was no need for Bilbo to begin theorising on his own.

“You are not a man of the kind the world has known so far. You are a man of my own creation.”

 _A new man, yes_. It had taken Thorin a long time to accept that there was enough humanity in Bilbo to think of him as a man, and yet not enough humanity to forget that there was something _more_ about him. At the beginning he had thought that it was something _less_ than a man, then he had called him _beast_ and _monster_ and thought that he would fare no better than an animal.

He had been proved wrong, since there was much more to Bilbo than met the eye.

His plan had been to create a better man, but maybe Bilbo belonged to another species - _the next species_. Thorin wondered if the time would come when Bilbo’s ugliness would appear as beauty; maybe the next species would worship Bilbo’s flaws as the sacred marks of their ancestor. Thorin knew enough about art to know that aesthetic values change over time and from one person to another (was he not proof of that, since he found the male body far more appealing than the female one?), so it was possible that in the future Bilbo would not be a monstrous exception, but the highest standard of attractiveness. He almost pitied himself for being unable to find Bilbo beautiful, and tried to imagine how it would feel to look upon his creature and think him comely.

And while they talked by the fire, with the pale light of the falling snow coming from the windows, Bilbo looked less alien and repulsive than he ever had, and there was something strangely appealing in his quiet, decent demeanour.

“Am I...am I like a drawing you traced on a page?” Bilbo inquired, fingers caressing the open pages - _he likes the feel of paper under his fingers, and that of bread_ , Thorin’s mind supplied vaguely. “Something you did on purpose?”

“Yes, I did it on purpose,” Thorin confirmed. He had always been a man of purpose, unable to be idle, craving action and craft. During the war, when he was on watch, he carved and engraved even if his eyes could hardly see what he was doing - but his hands knew enough and kept his mind vigilant and protected at the same time. “I _wanted_ to create you,” Thorin said, his voice almost choked with the fresh memory of the terrible will which had guided his steps toward Bilbo. “And I cared about the result. I wanted to give you life.”

 _And then I wanted to keep you alive, even if I was scared and disappointed and you were a monster_. _But I made your body from the scraps of corpses and now I’m making your soul from the scraps of mine, teaching you what I know and what I think._

Thorin felt a surge of exhilarating pride at the thought that all of Bilbo was of his own devising. Surely the fact that Bilbo was showing such intellectual and moral worth owed to the education he was providing him with. Yet while Thorin felt euphoric, Bilbo was silent, his head bent down.

“Why? Why did you want to give me life?” he asked in a whisper.

“For many reasons,” Thorin replied, slightly put off by the creature’s apparent lack of enthusiasm for the grandness of the concept. He had expected Bilbo to want to know _how_ he had managed such a visionary task, not _why_. But he answered nonetheless: “I am a scientist, I wanted to discover if it was possible.”

“So I’m an experiment of yours,” Bilbo spat, his voice rising.

He knew what an _experiment_ was, because Thorin had taught him to test his ideas through experiments. Yet he had never used such contempt when speaking of them, and Thorin frowned when he detected it in Bilbo’s voice.

“Yes, you’re my experiment. My most important one,” Thorin pointed out, before his voice turned softer: “Science is all that’s left to me Master Baggins, I’ve no other love in the world. I have only you, can you understand that? My last hope. You’re showing me the way, you’re stealing for me the secrets I’ve been wanting to discover for so long.”

_You’re the key to Death’s door and the people I loved could come back through that door._

A violent shiver ran down Thorin’s spine - not fear of opening that door or what could come through it, but fear that the door might not budge despite all his turning and oiling. And fear that the key would break in his hand if he applied too much strength.

“I’m not stealing anything,” Bilbo protested, growing a little red. He had been taught about stealing, the only crime he was well-informed about, together with lying. “So you _care_ for me. I’m important to you,” he dared suggest, though he did not raise his eyes to Thorin’s face.

He would have seen his master smiling.

“Could you ever doubt that?” Thorin asked, more warmly than he had intended. “I spend most of my time with you.”

“Don’t you care that I’m not a man?” Bilbo asked, his lower lip trembling with emotion.

 _Don’t you care that I’m a man?_ , a younger Thorin had asked the stable boy a lifetime ago. _That’s the thing I like_ , the other had answered, and then there had been a lot of sweating and pulling and tearing, and Thorin had felt raw and sharp, then boneless and ashamed at his own satiety. He shook his head to dispel memories which had no place here, when he was an adult man who could control his impulses and needed nothing but his science and the truth in his theories - embodied by the creature before him.

“You’re _mine_ ,” Thorin said, his possessive streak setting his mind ablaze. “My creature.”

Bilbo held his breath, apparently fascinated by the idea and still in awe of his master’s ability to assert his authority. It was strange to think that this same creature could claim to be called _Master Baggins_ and be so stubborn to pursue small increases in his freedom and independence from Thorin’s rule, yet look most happy to bear the yoke, as long as it was a sentiment burning in his master’s eyes and voice and not chains weighing down his wrists - in other words, as long as he chose to be owned. And Thorin was fascinated by such voluntary submission.  

“Yours, yes,” Bilbo nodded, the word slipping too easily from his lips - a word made for lovers, but he could not know that because he ignored such a concept, while Thorin was too distracted by the heady taste of his power over his creature to notice it. “Am I the only one of my kind?”

Thorin wondered whether Bilbo’s tone suggested that he would be happy or unhappy about it.

“There’s no one like you,” he replied, careful not to suggest anything with his voice, though he could feel that his own words were layered with different meanings, and some of them were dangerous.

“So I am alone,” the creature whispered, and it was not fully an unhappy statement, but it suggested a vague sadness about things unknown rather than about things lost.

“You’re not alone,” Thorin corrected him. “You have a master.”

Bilbo smiled at that, as if Thorin had done him a great kindness. His body leant forward a little, not quite touching Thorin, but suggesting that the creature could put his head in his master’s lap at any moment. The lower, smaller armchair where Bilbo sat seemed to be cut for just that sort of display of affection and loyalty, and Thorin wondered whether he should have encouraged it or felt some repulsion at the idea.

“I heard the servants talking,” Bilbo said suddenly, very quietly.

Thorin blinked. He felt his shoulders stiffen and his hand grasped a handful of Bilbo’s hair. He did not pull, but guided the creature’s head up, so that he could look straight into his eyes.

“You heard them?” he repeated, trying to hide the panic blooming in his heart. “How did it happen?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Bilbo apologised, eyes large in his pale face. “I was just stretching my legs the other night when I couldn’t sleep, walking quietly and not making any noise while I crossed the rooms you showed me. It was not the first time I had come upon them, but they were talking...and I couldn’t help listening. I’m sorry”

Thorin sighed. It was his own fault after all. Positively impressed by Bilbo’s progress, he had decided that the creature was to be granted more freedom to move around the house. He was not a danger to anyone, and even Dwalin had to admit that the _monster_ \- as he still called him from time to time - was growing into a gentle soul, provided with the healthiest appetite and a sound mind. Dwalin did not like the creature, but it felt more like a stubborn stance on the matter than a solid critique of Bilbo’s behaviour.

Over time and with great care, Thorin had allowed Bilbo into his own rooms, and then into other parts of the house. Usually it happened at nighttime, but sometimes Dwalin’s complicity made it possible for Thorin to allow the creature to walk through the house even during daytime while the servants where otherwise occupied and closely watched by his assistant. Considering that the snow had been keeping them inside the castle for most of the time, these alternatives were important to alleviate Bilbo’s forced residence in the tower.

The next step had been to allow Bilbo to wander a little through the house on his own. He could be as quiet as a mouse if he put his mind to it, and Thorin trusted his good sense as well as his timorous nature. Besides, he had warned Bilbo that the other people in the house would not like to meet him and they might try to hurt him. It did not feel like a lie, since an unfortunate and unprepared meeting with one of the servants would kindle a series of consequences which would indeed harm Bilbo in the long run, together with the whole household.

“What did you hear?” Thorin inquired.

“Oh nothing very interesting,” Bilbo murmured, and Thorin could see that he was downplaying it. The occurrence had clearly left him curious and longing for he knew not what, but he guessed that his master would not be too pleased, so he was pretending to care little for it. “They talked about the food the cook was going to prepare, and the snow. The one named Bofur sounded...funny, but I didn’t understand all he said, even if the others laughed. Then they moved away and I returned to my room.”

Thorin relaxed and let go of Bilbo’s head, which he had been holding while the creature spoke.

“I know what you’re thinking. They didn’t seem a threat to you. But they don’t know about you, and they wouldn’t understand if they saw you suddenly. They would not like you, Master Baggins.”

“Like Master Dwalin? I think I can manage them if I manage him,” Bilbo said, a little defiantly.

Thorin could not help but smirk at such a display.

“You may want to beg me not to report these words of yours to Dwalin,” he pointed out, feeling more relieved by the minute at Bilbo’s composed reaction. “You must promise that you won’t try to meet them ot speak to them, Master Baggins. Nor attract their attention in any way. I have already asked you this, but I’m asking it again. It’s for your own sake, and for mine as well.”

“But they’re your servants, they wouldn’t hurt _you_!” Bilbo protested, looking deeply offended at the idea.

“Yes, but you must trust me on this, my little fellow,” Thorin said gently.

“I promise,” Bilbo mumbled. “I only thought it would be good to meet them, master. If you were to speak to them about me, they might understand even if they don’t know me yet and they might not want to hurt me after all. I think I could find their company pleasant...and I could learn about other people beside you and Master Dwalin. Then I’d have many new things to discuss with you, master.”

“I’m protecting you, Bilbo.”

The creature did not complain about the lack of _Master Baggins_ this time. He only nodded, but then he was no more inclined to talk. He looked a little exhausted by the topics - his origins first, and then the fact that he was to be denied the company of men. It was a relief to Thorin that the creature had not asked _how long_ that prohibition would be valid, since he did not know the answer. After all, he had never thought that he would invite Bilbo to join him in his own quarters like some dignified guest - or rather like an _intimate_ one.

 _It’s a good deal to take in_ , Thorin admitted to himself while he watched Bilbo brooding by the fire, going through the books without truly reading or observing anything. His mind was clearly elsewhere and Thorin did not force him to talk, supposing that it was better to leave him some space to think.

Bilbo had not reacted badly to the things he had heard about himself, but there was no way to guess how his mind would work and weave around them, and the consequences might be apparent only days later. For the moment, Thorin allowed himself to fall into some meditations of his own, wondering if Bilbo Baggins would prove himself to be the right burglar for stealing back his loved ones from the clutches of Death.

 _Only a step in the ladder_ , he mused while he observed his creature with something alarmingly akin to fondness, _and one likely to crush under the weight of my purpose sooner or later._

 

*

 

He would have sworn that it was not a noise that woke him up, but rather a sense of imminent danger. When he found his brother sitting at the table he knew that he had been right. He drew his dressing gown tighter around his body, but did not stoke the embers nor look for the kettle.

Instead he sat down, and looked straight into his brother’s face.

“What do you want?” Dori asked.

“Nice to see you,” Nori replied with a sharp smile. “I didn’t mean to wake you up, it’s very late.”

“Yes, very late,” Dori agreed. “What do you want?” he asked again, as firmly as the first time.

“Some rest for the night and some food if you don’t mind,” Nori explained. At Dori’s derisive snort, he managed to look slightly offended. “I wouldn’t steal from my brother’s house. I don’t need to, do I?”

“You can sleep in Ori’s bed, and I’ll prepare you a knapsack with food and everything, so you can be back on the road first thing in the morning.”

Nori nodded slowly.

“I guessed that you wouldn’t want your neighbours to see me,” he admitted, apparently amused at Dori’s precautions when it came to hiding his brother from the nosy neighbours. Dori did not care for Nori’s contempt though - he was the one living in Hobbitburg and putting up with all the rumours that could destroy everything he had built over years in the blink of an eye. “That’s why I came so late,” Nori pointed out lazily.  

“So very considerate on your part,” Dori commented sharply.

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” Nori protested, rolling his eyes. “You’ve always been too grave for that even when you were a young man...and you’re not young anymore - I suppose that the grey hair and the fatness come with the business. You must be so proud to look respectable by _their_ standards.”

“Cut it short,” Dori grunted.

“Come on, teasing and jesting is my line of business, remember? It serves as a good distraction for the audience while...” he made a gesture with his nimble fingers and chuckled at the horrified look that appeared on Dori’s face. Then Nori sobered up and seemed to listen for a noise. “Anyway, where is Ori? I would like to see him, but I suppose that he’s not home, if you’re giving away his bed to a poor wanderer like me.”

“I sent him to Mihályodú on an errand,” was Dori’s mechanical answer. “He’ll be back in a few days.”

“With the weather like this on the first days of the New Year?” Nori frowned, but - to Dori’s relief - he did not seem to know any better.

If they were lucky enough, Nori had not heard about Ori working at the castle yet, and the lad would be unable to leave Ered Luin until the snow melted. So he would not meet Nori, because he never remained in town too long - Dori would take care of that. Nori was a troublemaker and the sooner he left, the better it would be for everyone.

“You’re growing hard and unbending,” Nori was saying. “Are you making that boy’s life miserable?”

“ _Miserable_?” Dori’s tone caught on fire at the word. “How dare you?” he growled. “I’ve been taking care of him since he was in the crib, while you were always a selfish brute that got himself into trouble. And how many times did I have rescue you from a furious neighbour or even the police? With your thieving habits and your taste for dissent, you’d get him into trouble in no time if I let you near him!”

“I’m as fond of the boy as you are,” Nori mumbled ruefully.

For the first time he appeared a little chastised and averted his eyes from Dori’s gaze.

“I don’t think so,” Dori continued, unmoved. He had known Nori’s ways for too long to let himself be deceived by a sudden display of conscience. Yes, he believed that Nori loved Ori, but that didn’t mean that given the chance he would do well by the boy. _Not like me_. “You have no right to say that,” Dori insisted. “I’m the one who’s around, who’s always been around taking care of him.”

“We’re different, we have always known that,” Nori spat, annoyed now. “It’s not my fault if I’m not cut out for this sort of life. You settled for it, and you apparently enjoy it. Yes, maybe it’s better for Ori to live with you, the road is no place for beardless boys, better for them to have hot milk and honey, soft pillows, and a whole damned town to bow to. Better to have a _tea shop_ ,” he sneered.

“Don’t speak of it with contempt when I worked so hard to have it,” Dori warned him.

He might have grown old and put some weight on, but he could still tackle Nori to the ground and give him a sound thrashing.

“And what do you have?” Nori asked.

“Respect and peace.”

“It’s not respect when you have to hide yourself from your neighbours and pretend not to be who you are,” Nori argued hotly. “It’s a false peace, don’t you see it? We are Khazâd, even if you’re repulsed by it.”

“I’m not repulsed,” Dori replied, shuddering at how weak and tired his own voice sounded. “I have never been repulsed,” he said more firmly. “Do you forget that I served under master Thrór’s command when you were a snivelling boy and Ori a toddler? Didn’t I provide for you with the gold we got from the campaigns against the Turks? I gave you comfort and servants, and a proper education. Master Thrór himself honoured our house, and he was as good as a king to me.”

“I remember,” Nori nodded, “and that makes it more bitter to think that we left Ereburg to hide here.”

“Things were bound to get worse, the Durins had grown too rich, and richness and happiness always attract the wrong kind of attention in the long run,” Dori sighed. “I knew it was coming, I saw how they treated us when the campaigns on the Southern borders ended. We were sent home and they praised us, but they hated us and all the gold we were amassing. I knew they would beat us one day...I was right. You knew what happened there, you know how they killed and pillaged, you know what they did to us in Ereburg and wherever Khazâd had settled in large groups. It was worse in Ereburg because it was the greatest thing we Khazâd had. They wanted to erase us.”

“And they did it, right?” Nori snapped. “They killed our cousins and our neighbours, took their gold and their gems, burnt their houses, and sent the Durins to their death like cattle to the slaughterhouse. Then they had us so scared that we cut our hair and stopped wearing our braids, and we didn’t talk Khuzdul anymore, so we didn’t exist and only then did the leave us alone.”

“We had to survive,” Dori murmured.

“It’s too high a price, even for survival.”

“That’s your choice Nori: wearing braids and swearing in Khuzdul, as if that’s enough to make you a better kind of man,” Dori gritted through his teeth, “while I protect our family living by the rules that were set for us. I enjoy it far less than you think, but someone must bear this burden and save what can be saved.”

“It’s not our family you’re protecting,” Nori objected. “We’re scattered, exiled. It’s just you and Ori.”

“Aren’t you in my house as well tonight, taking shelter from god knows what troubles waiting for you out there?”

“I’m not in trouble,” Nori protested, raising both gloved hands from the table. He had not undressed, as if he wasn’t sure that his brother would welcome him in his home.

It made Dori feel relieved, for it proved that he still had some authority with Nori, but also sad, because his brother should have known that he would not refuse him shelter.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said tiredly. “You can stay if you need to, but be discreet.”

“Discretion is part of my line of work,” Nori replied, but the joke fell flat. He cleared his throat. “Does Eijkenskialdi still live up there, at Ered Luin?”

“Why do you ask?” Dori inquired, suddenly suspicious. Nori just shrugged.

“In the end he’s hiding in his castle, and cares not for what happens to his people. Once upon a time the Durins were leaders among our people, but that man let his nephews die for him on the battlefield, and now that he’s the last of his blood, he has turned into a lunatic people accuse of aberrations and...” he stopped, maybe because he had caught his brother’s burning gaze.

“As long as you’re in my home,” Dori said, very slowly, “I forbid you to speak of Thorin Eijkenskialdi like you just did. Otherwise I’m going to cut your braid and your beard. I’m sure you know what that means for us Khazâd.”

The alarm on Nori’s face was answer enough. Dori nodded, then rose from his chair.

“I’m going back to bed. Make yourself comfortable.”

 

Dori knew that despite his arrogant approach, Nori would prove a decent guest and would leave soon, for their reunions were never pleasant and they always ended up discussing the same old differences.

What Dori did not know was that Nori was in Hobbitburg for a reason: he had an appointment with a man he had met the Autumn before, while he was in the area and he had stopped at the Green Dragon for ale and news.

At the time he had heard the man speak with a few local people from Hobbitburg, but some of the things the man had said had captured Nori’s attention, if not that of the farmers who were in the man’s company that evening. These Hobbitburg people were slow at taking hints, but Nori was not, and he had guessed the man’s ways. He was a big, bald German, with small clear eyes and an unpleasant sense of humour. He was also a corrupt Imperial officer, who did not care about overstepping the law as long as there was some profit in sight. He was also peculiarly interested in Thorin Eijkenskialdi’s story and dealings.

These two things - the unlawful trafficking he conducted and the slight obsession with the master of Ered Luin he nurtured - were the ties which connected him to Nori.

His name was Azog.


	10. Certain Happiness

_“When falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness?”_

 

Life was a wonderful terror to him, at times as sweet as an unnamed longing. Not like hunger though, because in his experience hunger would be satisfied sooner or later; it was more like fear of something lingering behind a closed door, and then the opening of the door which revealed an empty room - but something _might_ have been there a few moments before. _Elusive_ , that was a good word for life, and sometimes he thought that his inability to grasp its shape was connected with his unique origins; other times he thought that it must be the same for all mankind, but also that he was particularly endowed with the means and the reason to muse about life for long hours.

Part of his brooding found place in his conversations with his master, but not all of it. There were things Bilbo could not describe nor picture in his mind; he _sensed_ them instead, like the warmth of the fire when he had turned his back to the flames. He also knew that there were things his master kept from him, but he did not grieve this fact because he had learnt that the explanations would come in time.

For example, he felt sure that he had been waiting to know about how he had come to live since the beginning - since the fire, and the master, and the storm. It was only when his master had talked about it and told him he had been _created_ that Bilbo felt like a piece of him had been put in place, filling a hollow he had never recognised before. The relief he had experienced then had been almost frightening, because he had wondered how he had ever been able to carry on without such knowledge.

It followed that there were other hollows inside him, things that would make sense once he had them explained to him, but for the moment he could not even guess them - they were strangers hiding in closed rooms, vanishing as soon as he opened the door.

At times trying to remember something he had never learnt was frustrating; exciting too, because Bilbo liked the sudden opening, the colours rushing in, the tidy words wrapping themselves around the things which had gone unnamed and unknown for so long.

It was like solving riddles, an entertainment he had discovered of late and which promised him infinite delight, with the difference that he was quite good at inventing riddles of his own, while these other riddles had not been created by anyone. They were just there, inscribed in his mind according to that great order of things - _science_ , his master called it - that existed whether he liked it or not.

He understood that the master found this great order reassuring, the way Bilbo liked to have his food laid on his plate tidily.

Most of the time it felt like one of their walks in the woods, each step taking Bilbo farther from the tower - the place where he had been created (he tried to call it _burrow_ in his mind, a sweet homely word he had learnt studying the habits of forest animals, though the tower looked all wrong for a hole). Bilbo suspected that there was something out there, at the end of their walks, but they never quite reached it. And they always made it back, and it reassured him that they had not gone so far as to lose their way, but it also disappointed him that they had not chased whatever was waiting for him further on.

“Where would you like to go today?” his master asked, while Bilbo was checking that they had all they needed in their packs.

It was no longer unusual for the master to require Bilbo’s opinion and Bilbo himself delivered it without a second thought, because he had found that it could be respected and taken into account. If he had had any notion of childhood and adulthood, he would have thought that he was abandoning the first and entering the second, and that his elder - Thorin - now regarded him more as an equal than he had ever done before.

“I don’t really know,” he replied, tilting his head and counting the small packages of food they would take with them. “I think I’d like to see some new place. There was a path behind that small pond we visited a week ago. There was too much snow then and you said it was better not to take it. But I think the snow might have melted and the route will be clear enough.”

His master nodded and lifted his heavier backpack on his shoulders.

“Yes, we can take a look. Should there be too much snow it won’t be bad to linger by the pond.”

Bilbo smiled, buttoned his coat and dragged the hood over his head. He did not complain when Thorin adjusted the hood to better conceal his face. It was customary before their outings, and routine came easy to Bilbo, who was a creature of habit and ritual.

Besides, they had never encountered any danger thus far, so their walks had grown into a pleasant habit and no longer felt like an ordeal on their nerves. Bilbo, as usual very responsive to his master’s mood, knew that Thorin enjoyed their walks, though not as much as he did.

How could Bilbo not have loved them?

First of all, he had his master’s company all by himself because Dwalin never accompanied them - it was indeed very important that Dwalin watched over the household in their absence. Secondly, despite all those little setbacks that might bring Bilbo some discomfort (sore feet, cold nose, the occasional nettles or insect sting, modest meals to be consumed in not always comfortable seats...), the pleasure of discovery repaid him for all the inconvenience of being outdoors.

There was always something very interesting, bizarre, charming, or touching waiting for him out there; there were colours, sounds, and smells, nice ones and nasty ones, but every one of them felt important. He stored them in his mind and tried to replay them, to imagine them with his eyes closed and his nose buried in his pillow, the way he had learnt to bring to his mind the colour of his master’s eyes, the smell of his skin, and the feel of his hair when it casually brushed Bilbo’s forehead.

“So, have you been reading the book I gave you?” his master asked.

This was another thing Bilbo liked about their walks: his master would start asking him about their last lesson or teaching him a few things about what they could observe on the path, but soon enough their conversation would steer toward other topics and his master would say something about himself as well.

He never did it in the tower, but during their walks Thorin would almost invariably reveal a detail or two about his past. As it happened along their routes through the wood, there were interesting, bizarre, charming, or touching things waiting for Bilbo there.  

“I’ve already read a few tales,” Bilbo replied, his thumbs hooked in the straps of his smaller backpack. “But I’m not sure I’ve understood everything.”

“Go on, in truth it’s been a long time since I read that book...”

“Truly? I think it’s the best book I’ve ever read!” Bilbo said warmly.

“Or maybe you found the other books very boring,” his master teased him.

Bilbo felt his cheeks colour at the remark.

“It’s not that they were boring...they spoke of things you showed me and included a lot of interesting notions about how birds can fly and what reptiles eat, and the kind of plants one could use to cure a burn or feel lighter after a large meal. They were _useful_ , I think. But this book feels...you said that the things I was going to read are not true, because tales are just stories someone created. They can live only in my mind, right?”

“And you prefer that to the things that really live on earth?” his master enquired.

“I don’t think it’s so simple,” Bilbo protested and saw his master smile. “I think that I could discover those notions about animals and plants by myself, if I had the time and patience to observe them in nature. While the things this book says...I couldn’t have discovered them at all otherwise. So it might be more important, that’s all.”

His master laughed openly this time and Bilbo pursed his lips.

“So Master Baggins, you dismiss science for imagination.”

“You disagree,” Bilbo pointed out, peering up at his master despite the encumbrance of the hood.

“I think you cannot compare the one with the other, they are meant to tell us different things. Tales tell us _what_ we might hope for the future - a large treasure, a companion, the escape from the wolf lurking in the forest. Science tells us _how_ to get that future: how to dig gold from the earth and how to build a rifle to take the wolf down.”

Bilbo was tempted to ask whether science could also reveal how to find a companion, but he did not.

“Couldn’t it be the other way around?” he asked instead. His master hummed in surprise and made a sign for him to go on. “What if science was only providing us with the _what_ \- the rifle and the digging, but stories were meant to guide us about _how_ to use them? How gold should be spent and how to recognise a wolf...”

“I’m not sure that straw can be spun into gold nor that wolves are frequently found in granny’s clothes though,” Thorin jested, his eyes bright with humour.

It was such a pleasant sight, like that of the bluebells shivering at the gentlest touch of wind, that Bilbo could not feel annoyed at his master’s teasing. Besides, it was true that the tales he had been reading were set in a very different world from the one Bilbo had experienced, both first-hand and read about in the scientific books his master had been showing him for most of the winter.

“It’s very strange,” Bilbo murmured, while he let both his hands sweep through the tall grass and the lovely blue heads of the flowers - he tried to be as tender as the breeze, just for the pleasure of feeling them against his palm.

He would have been unable to say where he had learnt to touch flowers like that, since his master rarely showed any interest in them and was not used to indulging in flowers unless it was to teach something to Bilbo. But all growing things fascinated Bilbo, while Thorin was apparently more interested in things that remained the same.

“I know science is right, because I see with my own eyes that this flower looks just like the picture in the book,” Bilbo said, gently holding one single corolla between his thumb and index finger. “While the tale of the girl in the red hood does not say which flowers she was picking in the forest, nor is there any proper description. But I feel that the flowers in the tale are... _truer_.”

“You remember what I told you about truth and falsity,” his master said.

“That it’s not so simple to part one from the other,” Bilbo replied promptly.

“Do you think that reading those tales may make it harder to recognise truth?” Thorin asked with great simplicity. _He worries_ , Bilbo thought with some pleasure as he looked at his master’s face, _he worries about me_. The idea was a warm weight in Bilbo’s chest, but he shook his head to answer his master’s question as much as to dispel such a thought.

“No, I think you explained very well what a tale is,” he admitted. “It’s just that what the tale said about the flowers, how the little girl got so distracted at the sight of them that she did not think anymore about the wolf...I think it’s true. At least flowers distract _me_ ,” he said a little ruefully. “So I don’t think...”

Bilbo stopped. He bit his tongue a little, until the pain cleared his mind. This - swallowing down words he was not meant to say - was another thing he had learnt, but he would not be able to say when and from whom. There were many things like this, things his master called _instinct_ , but in truth felt like smaller pieces of whatever made him _Bilbo_.

“Is there a wolf prowling in the forest of your mind, Master Baggins?” Thorin inquired without halting his step - he had this perfect way of seeming absolutely focused on Bilbo while doing other things, like walking, writing, even talking with Dwalin.

Bilbo, on the other hand, felt that it would be good to talk and nothing more sometimes, because he was under the impression that they were leaving something important out of their conversations. If only they could sit together alone without a book around, Dwalin interrupting the flow of words, nor so many things for Bilbo to observe, then they would eventually grasp that hidden, elusive topic.

“There are things I don’t understand about the tales and if I keep looking at the flowers it will be too late to talk about them all, and then you’ll say that we have to go back to the tower.”

“Do you mind so much returning to the tower? It’s your home.”

Bilbo shuddered. _It isn’t my home_ , he thought wildly. He instantly felt ashamed, as if he had been caught doing something forbidden. He found pleasure in his obedience to his master, the feeling of being owned and commanded merging with that of being cared for. And his master had created him in the tower, where he was safe and warm. And that was the point of a home, right? A few tales confirmed this notion, but tale-people were also _kept_ in towers...

“It’s only that it feels nice out here,” Bilbo muttered, his eyes trained on the ground to hide his passing thoughts. “I wouldn’t like to go back before we get the chance to explore that path beyond the pond.”

“Then we should walk a little faster and reach the pond as soon as possible. Will your fascination with flowers allow it?”

“Of course it will,” Bilbo replied shamefacedly, and lengthened his stride.

He would never walk as fast as his master did, but then his master had longer legs and could march very swiftly upon them. Bilbo had noticed that his master had to restrain his pace to wait for him sometimes, and in truth he pretended to be a little slower than he was for the pleasure of having Thorin adjust his strides to match his.

“Peace, peace Master Baggins,” his master said, though Bilbo had not spoken in annoyance. Yet he would deny nothing when his master’s hand was patting his shoulder. “You see, the pond is near,” he added, pointing out something glittering among the trees, not so far indeed.

It was a small alpine lake, the water green and blue from the trees around and the sky above, grey rocks speckled with russet and white lichen on the top, and green with algae at the bottom. It was in the shape of a ribbon draped across the uneven ground, and in a few points was so narrow as to almost be a torrent rather than a pond, while its water gurgled among rocks in the permanent darkness of the trees closing upon it - like curved pillars in a church nave running and bending to meet each other at the top.

In Winter it was all snow and ice there, but now that Spring had come small rivulets fed the pond, and with the water came the buzzing of insects flying just above the surface, the tracks of small animals carved in the damp earth, the blooming of tiny white flowers scattered like sugar dust over the tender green of the grass.

_Even the light is more beautiful here_ , Bilbo thought as his heart leapt joyously in his chest at the sight of this favourite spot of his. In truth he would not mind if they were unable to walk past the pond, because it was enough to be here and smell the trees and the water, soft earth pressed against his toes, the grass growing around his ankles.

“It would be so pretty to build a house here,” he said dreamily.

“The ground is too irregular to build anything but an hut,” his master answered practically. “Here, let’s take some rest and some food,” he added, stopping by a few rocks that offered a convenient seat.

Bilbo did not care for sitting upon rocks, so he let himself fall on the ground by his master’s seat, carefully choosing a patch of grass well baked by the sun. It was the kind of sitting arrangement they usually held in Thorin’s quarters, so neither of them remarked upon it or lingered upon this intimacy of shared space that a stranger would instantly recognise and marvel at.

Their light meal, which the cook had prepared at Thorin’s order, consisted of soft cheese buns, boiled eggs, and small pies filled with minced meats and peppers. Bilbo divided the food between himself and his master with his usual punctiliousness, and they ate it in silence.

Bilbo looked at the forest while he chewed - it looked almost the same, but not entirely so, because every day the light was a little different, the smells not quite identical. It was especially pleasant today, as if the forest had forgotten how to appear threatening and gloomy in favour of this new allure - mottled with Sun-gold, burning with greens and whites and blues, its trees no longer silent.

At the heart of the forest there was Master Thorin.

Not Bilbo though, he would not include himself in the picture. It was enough to have his master there, with his long hair - it was oddly soft, Bilbo had discovered - falling on his shoulders and down his chest in disarray, the thick brows darkening the general look of his face, the lump of his nose, and the well-cut thick beard. It was strange that such an amount of hair on a face could not manage to hide the hardness lingering in the cheekbones, the forehead, the jaw.

_It is not like moss softening a rock_ , Bilbo mused.

He liked to see his master in his outdoor garments. There was leather and thick cloth, brown and black, and it conferred on his master an air of ease and comfort he could not quite reach in the castle, though Bilbo still favoured the half-dressed state his master kept in his quarters. Thorin would wear a loose shirt and a warm thing over his shoulders, and something would soften and melt in Bilbo’s chest, like milk sweetened with honey filling his mouth and warming his tongue.

“Tell me what you don’t understand about the tales you’ve read so far,” his master invited him when they had almost finished their early lunch.

Bilbo gobbled down the last cheese bun and licked his lips.

“I’d like to meet the cook,” he said. And when he caught his master’s gaze added: “I know I can’t and that they might want to hurt me, but I think that if the cook can make things taste so nice, maybe he wouldn’t mind me so much. He might...he might like me, don’t you think? And I could ask him how he makes that...”

“Master Baggins,” Thorin interrupted him. “You can’t. Remember that, you can’t.”

Bilbo fell silent and felt suddenly very unhappy, so he fixed his eyes upon a small flower near his foot, counting and recounting his petals in his mind. _He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not_... He heard his master sigh and the sound went straight through Bilbo’s chest like a needle searching for his heart.

“You’re not answering my question, Master Baggins. What is that you don’t understand in the tales?”

“Sometimes people and things disappear from the tales.” Bilbo was surprised to hear himself talk, since his throat felt so raw. “They are there up to a certain point, and then there is no more to be said about them. What does it mean? What happens to them?”

“What do you think, Master Baggins?”

“I don’t know,” Bilbo replied curtly, shrugging because he was feeling cold. The ground was damper than he had thought, so he was growing uncomfortable. “Why don’t _you_ tell me?” he retorted, raising his chin defiantly until his eyes met Thorin’s.

He saw that his master was not surprised nor annoyed, but rather pensive. Another shiver ran through Bilbo’s frame as he lowered his head, feeling foolish without knowing why. This was, he felt, the thing at the end of their walks, the thing he had wanted to know.

_Do I know it?_ Maybe he just had to remember it, then it would make sense like everything else. His master was right though, this thing was like a wolf prowling through his mind and something bitter on his tongue that Bilbo could not spit out. He stood up all of sudden, crumbs falling from his coat.

“Can we go now?” he asked and bit his lower lip. All of a sudden he could stay still no more and wished for some long, long walk which would take his breath and his thoughts, and make his feet ache as much as the ideas pounding their way through his head. “I want to see what’s there beyond the pond.”

“We can go,” his master agreed, but he rose slowly and there was some wariness in his gaze. “Do tell me, Master Baggins, are there other things you’d like to tell me about the tales?”

“There were things I was afraid of,” Bilbo replied, while they began skirting the lake to reach the path beyond it. “The wolf waiting for the girl, the ogre, and Rumpelstiltskin. The dark night without a moon and the damp cellars of the castle, but also the forest to cross.”

“But the...the ogre and Rumpelstiltskin aren’t real,” his master pointed out. “And in nature wolves do not behave like the ones in tales. The forest at night can be dangerous though.”

“How can I know which dangers are real and which are not?” Bilbo inquired. He knew that he was being annoying and that there was an edge of impatience to his voice, quite out of place on such a lovely day in Spring. Yet the words seemed to come unaided to his tongue. “You say that the ogre is not real, but then the wolf is. Maybe science doesn’t talk about ogres like tales do but they might be waiting for us in the dark of the forest.”

“You can think this and still venture in the forest by my side,” Thorin remarked, no longer looking at him. “It does you honour, Master Baggins.”

_I am safe with you_ , Bilbo’s mind supplied, but he could not say it aloud.

They had now taken the path beyond the pond, and it was a narrow track cutting through the forest, climbing up a slope and revealing the sight of the blue-grey crests rising sharply toward the sky. Bilbo was so caught up in the sight of the peaks, which appeared closer than ever in the clear air, that his master had to hold him by his arm a few times, or he would have tripped over the rocks.

“Indeed the world is full of perils,” Thorin said after a while, when the climbing became sweeter and left them breath enough to carry on their conversation. “Learning to recognise the dangers out there must have something to do with the difference between truth and untruth.”

“How?”

“Many of the evil things in this world are dangerous because they do not appear to be so. It’s a matter of truth and lies, and dangerous things hide their nature, because deceit allows them to strike harder.”

“Like the wolf hiding in the grandmother’s clothes,” Bilbo understood.

“Wolves in nature may not dress up as grandmothers, but there are people as dangerous as wolves at the end of a harsh Winter and such people may hide their hunger to get a better chance at eating you.”

Bilbo gave a little pained gasp at that - he felt again that _thing_ probing his mind, a shadow covering the sun and turning the air suddenly colder. He shook his head, trying to dispel the notion - or the memory - his master’s word had brought to his mind.

“I’m sorry Master Baggins,” Thorin said gently, slowing his step to fall in beside Bilbo. His hand, heavy and warm, was suddenly on Bilbo’s back. “I didn’t mean to scare you with idle words about wolves, but I suppose I was talking about myself.”

“About _yourself_?” Bilbo repeated, the idea cutting through the haze which had fallen upon his mind.

“I met many people who were like wolves and disguised their dangerous nature.”

“When you were a king?”

Thorin froze mid-step and turned his head to take a look at Bilbo. Then the sound of his deep laugh rang through the forest, which seemed to fall silent in turn. Or at least Bilbo did, thrilled by the way his master’s laugh echoed among the trees as if it could reach the highest peak and fill the whole sky the way it filled Bilbo’s ears.

“Where did you get such an idea?” Thorin asked, sobering up a little.

He was amused, yes, but now Bilbo noticed that there was also some nervousness in his master’s eyes. If Bilbo had ever seen Thorin look that way, he would have recognised that his master felt suddenly shy.

“From...from the tales,” Bilbo admitted, looking down before holding his master’s gaze again. “There are kings and they’ve got castles, like you do. But they also wear crowns and you don’t, and...well, I thought that you might have been a king once.”

His master’s smile had lost its mirth while Bilbo was talking, and his eyes had narrowed. Bilbo felt on the verge of apologising, though he did not know _why_ he should, but Thorin preceded him.

“I was never a king,” he replied quietly and resumed his pace. Bilbo trailed a little behind him, straining his ears not to lose a single word while they were making their way higher up through the forest. “Some of my ancestors fancied themselves kings though, and styled their lives and their houses accordingly. I suppose some of their blood must still run in my veins. _Fools_ ,” Thorin muttered under his breath, “all of us, for this is no longer an age of kings. You know Master Baggins, I think maybe there were kings in my family at the time of the tales in your book.”

“But the tales...you said...”

“Exactly. Maybe there was never any king among the Durins,” his master mumbled. “But if there were they would have liked this sight,” he added, because they had reached a clearing and their climbing was now repaid with the breathtaking sight of the bare mountains soaring up toward the sky, their skin rough and bluish in the sun. They admired the stark lunar landscape without talking, at least until a few clouds hid the nearest peaks and they felt their cold shadows falling on their faces.

“There was a mountain where I was born,” Thorin said.

“Only one?”

“It was magnificent though, a giant far greater than these. It rose from the land alone and at night you would see fires shining through the darkness, the whole mountain alive with settlements. The city, Master Baggins, you should have seen what a city we had there! It looked as if it had bloomed from the mountain itself, like you’d expect a flower to grow from the earth, but it was made of stone and metal, all things hard and unyielding. Built entirely by Khazâd, so the signs of our people were everywhere in the fashion of the houses and the palaces, in the factories and the forges...and the bearing of my kin, their heavy steps under the vaults we delved into the mountain, and their keen eyes for gems and gold, the way they inked their skin and braided their hair...”

Bilbo felt dizzy with the vision his master’s voice was painting, a picture blurred against the actual landscape before his eyes.

“Would you take me there, master? To your city?”

“There’s nothing there now,” Thorin growled, his voice suddenly sharp at the edges where it had been like soft velvet a moment before. Bilbo took a step back and saw that his master’s hands were closed into fists. “My home...ruined, ruined forever. Burnt and erased from the earth. Only the mountain is still on its feet.”

“I am...I am sorry,” Bilbo said; pain running through him as his master’s sorrow was poured into his veins until it gripped Bilbo’s heart as well.

When Thorin turned toward him there was a wild look on his face, but it immediately softened as he moved closer to Bilbo until he could pat his back - small, little touches that made Bilbo think of when his master was checking on him and would touch his limbs to gauge his reactions.

“Hush, little one,” he whispered. “I’m not angry with you.”

“I know that,” Bilbo whined. “But you’re unhappy,” he added, and regretted it the moment it left his mouth. Thorin’s hand froze over his back.

“Only wolves, Master Baggins, prowling through my mind.”

“You’re scared then.”

“Let’s make our way back, Master Baggins,” his master replied, using the pressure of his hand to guide Bilbo to retrace their steps back to the pond.

Bilbo complied, his head low, his mind wandering through the words his master had used to describe the place where he was born. He felt an ache, a desire to visit that place - that lonely mountain - as if it could reveal to him the great mystery of his master’s birth, and thus yield to Bilbo’s heart an even greater secret - _Life_.

“I haven’t talked about Erebor in a long while,” his master sighed. “I’m no longer used to sharing my thoughts with another, Master Baggins. Yet I find myself compelled to do that with you, because it seems to me that I can hardly teach you anything without referring to my own experience. It is, after all, a scientific approach.”

“I don’t mind,” Bilbo replied with some fervour.

“You’re a gentle fellow,” his master nodded. “And a good listener too,” he added with a quick smile which did not quite reach his eyes. Bilbo said nothing, but he stopped and bent down to pick up something from the ground. “What is this?” his master asked.

“An acorn, master,” Bilbo replied, opening his hand to show it to Thorin. “Will...will you take it?” he asked, a blush spreading over his cheeks.

“As a token of this walk, Master Baggins?” Thorin hummed, taking the acorn and rolling it in his far larger palm. “There aren’t many oaks around, I wonder how it got here...a squirrel, probably.”

Bilbo nodded, though he wasn’t really interested in how the acorn had fallen among the fir trees. Since his master had given him that pinecone a long time ago, he had desired to reciprocate the gesture. But it was very difficult to give his master something when it usually worked the other way around - whether it was food, clothes, paper, books...

He had picked up the acorn on a sudden impulse, compelled by the desire to give something to his master at a time when he looked so unhappy, but now he felt nervous, afraid that Thorin would throw the acorn away. So Bilbo wrapped his hands around his master’s fingers to force them to close around the acorn. He did it without thinking, and the warmth of his master’s hand was a shock, but Bilbo did not take his hands away for fear that Thorin would let the acorn fall.

“My little companion,” his master grumbled good-humouredly. He put his other large hand on Bilbo’s head.”Don’t look so scared, I will keep this token.”

Bilbo relaxed under the touch and half-closed his eyes. _There was an oak by our house_ , he remembered and wanted to tell his master about it, but Thorin had resumed his walk and Bilbo was forced to quicken his pace to catch up with him.

Climbing down took them less time than ascending and Bilbo was strangely distracted. He was pleased that his master had accepted his gift, yet he felt as if he had forgotten the right words for the occasion - yes, he was afraid that his mother would be displeased with him, since she had worked so hard to raise a well-mannered boy. Then Bilbo’s foot caught in a rock and he slipped down the slope until he landed on a patch of grass.

“Master Baggins!”

Thorin was at his side in a moment, helping him up and inspecting his state.

“It’s nothing,” Bilbo murmured, but he was troubled without knowing why, and his master’s touch felt strange on his head. Still, he nodded when Thorin asked him if he was all right. “Will you tell me more about Erebor, master?” he asked suddenly.

Thorin’s hands, roaming over his body for signs of hurt, stopped.

“What do you want to know?”

“Did you...did you have any brothers or sisters there? In tales there are so many brothers and sisters, and sometimes they behave very well to each other, other times they aren’t quite as nice. I was wondering how it was for you.”

“I had a brother and a sister,” his master replied when they resumed their pace. They were now passing by the small lake, but Bilbo’s attention was entirely on his master this time. “Both younger than me. My brother was...you know, I’m not sure what kind of person he was. I remember that we quarrelled a great deal while we were growing up, and that I would often find him too noisy and bothersome. I think I favoured my sister, because she was more like me and I felt that I could tell her many things I didn’t dare confess to others. Frerin, my brother, wasn’t a good listener on the other hand. He would soon grow bored with talking, while his favourite games always involved some mischief. Kíli resembled him most.”

“Who’s Kíli?”

“He was my sister’s younger son. Fíli was the older one and my sister Dís used to say that Fíli’s character reminded her of me, though I don’t think she was right. He would have grown into a better man and he would have been my heir.”

“ _Heir_?”

“It means that he would have been the head of our family after...after me. Frerin was destined for military service because my grandfather wanted a soldier in the family. I think it suited Frerin, or at least he always made a point of telling us how happy he was living that kind of life. Later, when I was forced to enroll and we fought side by side, I was no longer sure that he was enjoying it, but it might have been that he had guessed what was in store for all of us and so he had lost all pleasure in the military life.”

“And your sister?”

“I think she saw it first. She realised that the way we lived, the way we _were_ , would not survive. Among our people women are traditionally given much freedom and they are encouraged to sit among men, drink and hunt with them. Dís was good at all these things, so my parents indulged her. We thought she was the most charming woman, and we had been telling her so for years. But when she was at last presented at court it went badly: she was judged too forward, too unwomanly, and she was mistreated. She left Wien in disgrace, swearing she would never set foot at court again, so bitterly disappointed as she was. She was true to her word, since she married a common merchant against my parents’ wishes - but at least he was of our blood, so he didn’t mind her ways.”

“I’m an only child,” Bilbo sighed. “I think my parents would have liked to have other children but...”

He dragged his feet a little, unwilling to leave the pond behind. It would be nice to stay a little longer since the air had grown so warm and the buzz of bees was making him drowsy. He would have liked to sleep by the lake, and then taste its water - his master never let him too near the water and did not want him to take a look at the surface of the pond, but Bilbo wondered if he would be able to see some fish...

“What did you just say?” Thorin asked suddenly.

Bilbo shuddered, because his master’s tone was tense and it jarred against the peacefulness of the moment.

“Nothing. Can I take a look at the fishes in the water?” he asked instead.

“Bilbo, what did you say?” his master repeated, moving closer and looming over him.

Bilbo began to feel afraid, but also annoyed. He just wanted to look at the water, the water which was just like a mirror - there were mirrors in tales as well - and take a look at his own face reflected there, together with the trees and the mountains.

Yet he could see that Thorin would not let him get away without an answer.

“I was only talking about my parents,” he mumbled.

“You’ve got no parents. I’m your creator,” his master hissed.

“I did have them!” Bilbo protested, his temper flaring up in the blink of an eye. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, then added in his most reasonable tone: “I had parents. Their names were Belladonna and Bungo Baggins, and they...” he stopped, because he knew something had happened.

Something had changed things forever and left him alone. There was a great coldness there, a long Winter that seemed to stretch its bony fingers for years rather than for months, and wolves hollering in the dark of a bottomless night, the food growing pale and unsavoury in their bowls, the stench of sickness seeping under closed doors. Whether that something had happened to Belladonna and Bungo, or to Master Thorin, he could not say - but he felt that he was now utterly abandoned and wretched.

“Listen to me,” Thorin gritted through his teeth. He was holding Bilbo by his arm, but Bilbo did not remember when his master had got hold of him. It hurt. “You’re my creature. I created you in that tower. Who told you these things? Where did you get those names from? Have you been listening to the servants’ talk?”

“I am Bilbo Baggins!” Bilbo cried in fear and anger, trying to shake off his master’s grip. “I am the son of Belladonna and Bungo Baggins, I am Bilbo Baggins, I am Bilbo...”

“You are my creature,” Thorin insisted, each word falling upon Bilbo like a blow.

Then came that thing, the mystery which had eluded Bilbo’s hearing and sight for so long, or maybe it was the other way around and it had been Bilbo who had fled from that thing of horror.

“Bilbo Baggins has been dead for months.” 


	11. Misery

_“Misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous”_

 

_[excerpt from the diary of Doctor Thorin Eijkenskialdi]_

_April 22 nd, 18--_

_I won’t sleep tonight. Worry is making me sick, burning me like a fever. I haven’t eaten anything since we returned, though I know that I should have forced myself to take something. An empty stomach isn’t going to help anyone. He didn’t eat either, though I left him some bread and milk in the hope that he would feel hungry over the night - but I am afraid that the only thing inside him now is rage._

_I was surprised. I’ve never seen him so angry before. He used to rage and thrash like a wild beast in his early days, yet he has been growing into a quiet, thoughtful type who gets annoyed easily but seldom turns angry at anything._

_This time is different, because he knows what all this is about. Therefore he’s miserable, and furious._

_~~I feel wretched.~~ _

_Is it my fault? Have I triggered his mind into this? It is possible that I have been careless in speaking to him too freely. I should have checked every word leaving my mouth, but he has proved such a bright little thing that I couldn’t help myself, and I started talking too much and too deep, taking him into my confidence._

_I should have known that something would go wrong once I started to trust him with my own story - when I can hardly bear it, how could I think that he would shoulder it? There’s too much pain and loss about it, and they might have toppled him over the abyss of his own consciousness._

_I have been blind and selfish, too eager to relieve myself of my burden to consider what effects my words might have on him. I should have guided him with a firm but careful hand, providing him with the right means to understand his own existence._

_I didn’t, and now we’re both suffering the consequences of my stupidity._

_My own resolve is torn apart; I would like to go down to him and try to talk to him. He doesn’t want to listen, I know that much, but I could try nevertheless, hoping that a few words would penetrate the thick curtain of his rage. Yes, I would like to calm him down like I would do with a frightened horse, and I would feel better knowing that I’m holding the reins again._

_I am afraid of what he will do in this state._

_Dwalin convinced me to lock him up in his room for the night, because we can’t trust him in such a state. I agreed to this, but I don’t like it. He is, again, our prisoner; yet it’s not his fault - it’s the very nature of his existence which had been suddenly and painfully revealed to him, and the truth is turning him back into a monster._

_We could not do differently though. Dwalin is right, we don’t know what he could get up to while he’s so wretched, and he could find means to hurt himself if I let him out of his room. There, at least, he’s safe. But I didn’t want him chained, that would have been too painful for us both, and I still hope that I will be able to do something to bring things back to normal._

_I must be going mad._

_I’m thinking in terms of a normal state of things. There is this creature locked in the tower of this castle and I created him from the limbs of dead men. I raised him and took care of him, taught him and disciplined him, ~~and then I took to him as I would a friend.~~_

_I have stoked the fire. The room has grown damn cold. I would like to wake Dwalin up, at least there would be someone I could talk to. But I already told him all I knew and all that happened today, and asked him if he had ever told the creature anything that could explain how he knew about the true Bilbo Baggins._

_Damn the day I chose that name. I should have picked another one, a name without a body left behind in a grave, but I didn’t think about it at the time. I wanted to give him a name, like one names a pet, and it was on my mind, I don’t know why that one rather than another, I don’t remember all the names engraved on the tombstones - when one’s digging up the dead he doesn’t pay so much attention to such details._

_Surely we had to make sure that we were digging the right grave, because we had to be certain that the body was fresh and not too damaged or maimed by any sickness. We made mistakes too, and that usually meant starting the work afresh, because we had been unable to spot the right grave or we had mistreated the poor thing inside, or even discovered that an apparently healthy body was rotten and useless._

_Yes, it was grim work, and work that would turn the guts of any man. It turned ours. Yet, I have seen worse on the battlefield. In fact there was a peace, a quiet watchfulness about our midnight work in the graveyards. Unpleasant, yes, but there has never been any shame in it, only the nagging fear of being spied upon, discovered, denounced. And the hardship of the work - rain, mud, darkness. Frozen ground that would not give in under our spades. The reek and the fluids, the occasional stray dog._

_And in the midst of all this, a single name was impressed upon my mind._

_It may be that it was the last piece - the brain I mean. I remember it was a fresh grave. Dwalin had told me about it, as he had done for many others. Male, younger than me, not exactly rich but well-off, no bad habits reported to the date of his death - not a drinker nor a violent man, so I had assumed that his brain would be in good shape._

_An unassuming bourgeois had seemed a good idea at the time: nothing peculiar or worth remembering about this man, who had been buried in the graveyard by the hill._

_He had been done in by the fever, like many others in Autumn. I knew enough about the fever and its course to be sure that it would not have damaged the brain, only the lungs. And I had expected that it would be a clean slate for me to write upon, no memories nor feelings stored in that brain._

_Was I so terribly wrong? Or has anyone in this house been talking about Bilbo Baggins?_

_I wanted to interrogate the servants, but Dwalin prevented it. He was right. It would have raised unnecessary and untimely suspicions. We might have to face the creature’s disobedience, we don’t need servants asking themselves why their master has taken a sudden interest in a dead man. I wonder what the probabilities are that my servants had been talking about Bilbo Baggins and that they had been overheard by the creature at night._

_I’m scared by the sort of details he could recall. He said things about that Baggins family...but he might have worked himself into thinking those things, his imagination roused by the tales he has been reading and by my words about my kin. I don’t think he was aware of lying, but he might have been convincing himself of the truth of his own words, unable to distinguish fake memories from real ones in his eagerness to be provided with a past._

_He was clearly touched by my incautious words about Erebor, they might have encouraged him to offer me some story in exchange. He has developed a taste for politeness and he hardly lets anything pass without saying “please” and “thank you”, and he inclines toward over-gratitude. He obviously felt compelled to return my confidence and this endeavour led him to invent - no, to believe his own story._

_I reacted badly. I confess to this._

_I don’t know what I should have done instead though. Ignored him? Beaten him on the spot? Dragged him back to the castle and set things right again? I should have probably waited to collect my thoughts before speaking, while I threw the truth at his feet and gave him opportunity to react. I lashed out, yes, but because he frightened me. Mahal help me, but he frightened me._

_I reckon I haven’t been afraid of him in a long time. The terror of the night he was born is still on my mind, and yet I have been able to enjoy his company and his progress for the past months. He has grown in my eyes from monster to man - a new kind of man, but nevertheless one I was glad to share my time with. I see now that it was foolish on my part, that I let my guard down, and the stakes are so high..._

_But I shouldn’t be writing this. I should record what happened today as clearly as possible. It might be very important in the next few days and I do need to think coolly about what will come next._

_First of all the facts, then the solution will appear clearly. ~~I only pray to Mahal that this is not going to end with a mercy killing~~._

_My plan for today were as simple and ordinary as my plans for the creature have grown to be of late. Since the weather has remarkably improved over the last couple of weeks, we have been able to take walks in the forest on an almost daily basis. The creature enjoys walking and nature seems to hold an infinite charm in his eyes._

_Walks are therefore a most useful ruse to introduce him to new notions, to the point that I have been hoping that natural sciences would be among his first accomplishments - though I must say that for someone like him, the very act of breathing is an accomplishment._

_I have always been fascinated by his resilience and his ability to adapt, but I won’t deny that I started to hope for something greater yet - a fine mind, a cultivated intellect would suit my wishes and my taste, and make him a most remarkable companion. I see that he has managed to both comply with my wishes and thwart them at the same time - he is indeed remarkable, but he relies more on imagination than scientific approach, he prefers tales and whimsical notions to exact data. ~~He has been growing into his own person rather than my creature.~~  _

_Despite this, our walks have been ~~pleasurable~~ interesting and we have been considerably lucky. I have taken care to prefer the least frequented paths and the spots which could offer some hiding place should we chance on anyone. We did, a couple of times, but I had time to change our route so that we avoided any meeting - at least my knowledge of the forest is serving me well. Bilbo didn’t notice and this obviously spared him some fright, but I fear that the almost complete isolation he lives in is proving worse than any sudden meeting with a local peasant or a hunter._

_Anyway we were making our way back to the castle and we were almost past the small lake where we had our lunch earlier. It was not the first time that I had to keep Bilbo from looking into its water. Apart from the fact that the lakeside is more slippery and treacherous than he thinks and he could have fallen into the cold water, I was afraid that he would catch a glimpse of his face._

_Bilbo has never laid eyes on his own features. I took care to not let him have any mirror and remove or cover all reflective surfaces around the house. I knew that the first sight of his face would trouble him: he has me and Dwalin for comparison, but even so I supposed that seeing his own face would prove too much for him all of sudden. That’s why I have never wanted him to get too close to the water and his stubborn desire to do so alarmed me._

_Yet I can’t remember whether he said the other words before or after he told me that he wanted to look at the fishes in the lake. What I know is that suddenly we were quarrelling and I was holding him because I feared that he would see his face at last, or even drown himself in the lake. And I was trying to make him stop talking about his parents, because he had started babbling about these Bagginses and he could not bring himself to say it, but I knew at once that he had suddenly grasped the idea of death._

_He struggled. I told him that he was my creature, but he couldn’t let those thoughts go and he was verging on hysteria. I should have slapped him. I didn’t, but I told him the truth, because it seemed the only thing I could do to prevent him from believing whatever his imagination or memory was feeding him._

_Gods forgive me, I told him that Bilbo Baggins is dead._

 

_And then I did worse._

_For he would not believe me. He refused to listen and I was mad with fear that someone would appear at any moment attracted by the noise, and would see me struggling with this uncanny creature. It was in fear that I dragged him through the forest, and it was in fear that I decided to shock him into submission, to force him to accept that he is my creature and not this stranger, this Bilbo Baggins who died months ago ~~and was no one to me~~._

_He told me that he remembered his parents, his house, his time before me._

_I told him that he couldn’t have those memories. That they were a trick of his brain._

_I think that he would have cried, but he has never done it before, or maybe it was too much for crying. I saw him choke on his own breath, then take air into his lungs with great gulps as if I had knocked him down to the ground. I saw his eyes bulge, his eyelids redden, but still tears did not come. If I could have helped, I would have let him cry, but I couldn’t even explain to him what crying was - indeed I don’t remember the last time I cried and it would be too easy to say it was with Fíli drawing his last breath in my arms._

_I was furious and I was desperate. We both were._

_I half hauled half pushed him down the slope, past the castle, through the wood. He fell and I took him up. For a while I even carried him under my arm like a peasant would carry a pig to the slaughter. He made these hideous sounds, as if he had reverted to the animal state of the beginning. He hit me how he could, with his fists and his feet; his teeth grinding against each other, his cheeks dry._

_I was frantic, almost senseless with the resolve to take those memories away from him._

_~~What have I done? I created a man who is neither a new man nor a dead man back to life. People around here tell each other tales about the horror of the revenants, those who return to life to haunt the living, but they have been unable to conceive what my science created.~~ _

_~~Bilbo, my gentle companion, can neither claim life or death for himself, because I made him up from scraps and I have thrown him into a world where there’s no space for him at all.~~ _

_~~Is there any forgiveness for what I have done?~~ _

_I don’t know how we got there. Even the fear of being discovered had been overcome by the anguish I felt at my creature’s rebellion. Still, I managed to drag Bilbo all the way to the graveyard. If anyone saw us, he must have fled in fear, for I reckon that my look was hardly any better than that of my monster. I felt mad, I was mad, and I forced Bilbo to kneel by the gravestone. Not his own, just the place I dug up to find a brain that would fit the body I had put together._

_I didn’t remember the location of the gravestone at first. I had to take a look around, Bilbo shaking from head to foot, my hand closed around his arm and jerking him back and forth while I paced the graveyard like a madman. At last I found it and there I made him kneel. I made him kneel and look at the engraving. I told him that the name there was not him. That those memories or rumours he had heard from my servants, belong to the thing buried in the ground where he was kneeling, and not to him. That he is my creature and I named him and he owes me his existence._

_It sobered him._

_This is what I must write - that it worked then. The hysterics stopped. He grew cold and still, and buried his face into the grass over the tomb. Mahal forgive me, it was the first loss he had ever experienced and he had lost himself, and he could not even cry for himself._

_He went limp like a rag doll forgotten in the grass. I picked him up and he did not struggle. My temper was cooling down then, and I dreaded the consequences of my actions and the state of his mind. I took him back to the castle while dusk was falling quickly, the oncoming darkness offering us shelter from indiscreet glances but slowing down my pace at the same time. I don’t know how much time it took me to get back to the castle, and by then Dwalin had grown worried._

_He helped me to carry Bilbo inside and put him back in his cell. It was then that Bilbo asked for a mirror. I could have denied it, but what was the point? I was the one who held it before Bilbo’s face. If we thought that he would smash the mirror and try to stab me with a shard, we were disappointed - he thanked me and said no more. We locked him up in his cell and still he did not protest._

_This silence worries me no less than his frenzy. I checked the cell twice to make sure there is nothing there that could offer him a chance to hurt himself. I was almost on the verge of spending the night by his bed watching over him, but Dwalin dissuaded me._

_He obviously feared that Bilbo would try to kill me overnight, and I hoped that I could get some sleep - how tired I am! My whole body seems to hurt from the effort of carrying and dragging Bilbo to and from the graveyard. Yet I won’t, I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about him._

_I must solve this. He has no one but me, and I no longer know what he is to me._

_I will wait only till tomorrow. But tomorrow I must see him again and try to get past his silence. I must know what he’s thinking and whether he does hate me or_

 

_[the entry for this day ends here]_

 

*

 

Many years before, Thorin Eijkenskialdi had been a young medicine student in Wien. Despite the fact that his character painfully gravitated toward a thoughtful shyness often mistaken for aloofness, he had managed to make a few friends among his fellow students. His sharp yet somewhat whimsical opinions, whose very nature would alienate those same friends a few years later, had won them at the beginning.

Thorin was a quite exotic fellow from their point of view. Young, rich students are always on the look for entertainment and nonconformity  - Thorin’s descent and ideas provided both, so for a short time he found himself in the spotlight of a small group of would-be intellectuals. They were mainly medicine students, but also a chemist, the son of a duke, a penniless officer, and a poet who briefly flirted with Thorin, at least until he realised that Thorin’s fire burnt too wildly for him to keep up with only feeble verses.

It had been during one _soirée_ at the small club that the chemist had raised the old question.

“Does anything like coincidences exist?”

The answers had been the usual ones. There were a few convinced atheists - Thorin among them - but others felt confident that a superior consciousness must be taken into account. Yet most of the young men present that night refused the idea of a greater plan depriving them of the pleasure of taking decisions.

Their position in life reassured them about the fact that they would get to choose for themselves in the future. The peasants working the lands the son of the duke would inherit, or the scullery maids that set the fire in the apartments the medicine students shared would have replied quite differently, for their experience of the world was filled with impossibilities rather than possibilities.

“Coincidences exist,” Thorin had declared, his deep voice easily conquering the others’ attention. “Yet it is the mission of the scientist to reveal that most of what we call coincidence is the work of causes and consequences. Then enlightened men would discover that pure coincidence is the rarest thing in existence.”

“And since we’re among enlight..light...” the officer had hiccupped, and some of the champagne in his glass had toppled onto the floor. “I mean, among _friends_ ,” he had sneered, because he had just been refused a loan by most of the other young men of the party, “any secret to reveal about these rare coincidences, Eijkenskialdi?”

If Thorin had been more attentive, he would have noticed that others smiled or chuckled at the question - his manners and his ideas were already becoming the object of other people’s dismissive sarcasm. But he was still too eager to share his thoughts with his peers to care about glances and whispers, the first signs of a lazy contempt which would turn into a painful rejection.

“I think coincidences of this kind, true ones I mean, occur but three times in the life of a man, for there are only three moments in his life he can’t choose for himself.”

“Meaning what?”

“When his mother conceives him, when he dies, when he falls in love.”

“Life, death, and love...how very poetic,” commented the little poet airily, who had not yet decided what to do with this big man who asked too much of him.

Thorin’s cheeks had burnt red, but he had gracefully endured the teasing of his friends for the rest of the evening.

Of all the people involved in the rapid succession of events which would bring about the fall of Ered Luin, only one remembered that party in Wien and Eijkenskialdi’s words, and it was not Thorin himself. Nori and Ori could not possibly know about it, while Dwalin might have been told later on, but he had no memory for philosophical consideration. Bilbo, on the other hand, would have found the topic most interesting, but that night he was hardly aware of anything except his own sorrow and rage.

Therefore, among those who played a major role in the events, only Azog remembered.

It was not a coincidence that the young officer who had been admitted to the intellectual circle Thorin had belonged to so many years ago was the same man who had promised Nori money for his help to get into Ered Luin. Azog had never been respectable company and that was why he had been introduced to their party - it was Azog’s role to provide the club with that _bit of rough_ which was a welcome change for its members, just like Thorin’s alien culture was a source of shallow fascination. But Azog’s youthful love for brawling and drinking had turned into a more businesslike kind of malice over the years, and his career had offered him plenty of chances to abuse his power and turn rules to his own advantage.

On the other hand, racism provided Azog with a constant stock of people to hate and bully - Italians, Jews, Muslims, Romani...there was no end to Azog’s prejudices, nor to his constant desire to humiliate, beat, kill. He had gladly joined in when the Empire had turned against the Khazâd, and their leaders had been accused of treason. He hated Khazâd most, maybe because he remembered a young man who had refused him a loan or treated him with contempt - whether that man had been Thorin or not was unimportant, because Azog’s hate had been fixed upon Khazâd and the Durins in particular for so long that he would not have been able to explain why, nor would he have cared to.

He regretted that he had not been there, butchering and burning, when Ereburg had fallen into the hands of the Imperial troops. But he had had his fair share of chasing and killing seditious Khazâd, and he had always been morbidly interested in the fall of the Durins.

Yet it was a coincidence that he had found himself sent to Hobbitburg, because he had not known that Thorin Eijkenskialdi had retired to Ered Luin. After the discovery, though, he had been guided by the wish to harm his old acquaintance, and this was the reason why he had been so keen on setting on some business with Nori.

 

As for Nori, there was almost no coincidence to be found in his involvement.

He had been born in Erebor and lived there until the age of fourteen, when his older brother and guardian had decided to leave the city for fear that it would become the first object of the increasing racial hate against Khazâd. It had felt like an exile, and Nori had never truly forgiven Dori for his choice, despite the fact that Dori had been right and they would have been swept away with the others if they had remained there. But, like many exiled people, Nori felt that a grave would have been better than no place to belong to.

Nori could have turned into a brooding, sullen fellow, but his love of adventure and his contempt for authority had rather led him to another kind of life - he had made his way through most of the Empire, thieving, spying, trafficking, never choosing a side except his own. He liked the company of gypsies and circus people most, and always kept an eye out for fellow Khazâd; he was proud of his hair and his beard, carved his own beads and inked his skin.

Azog, who was keen on securing Nori’s burgling skills for his break into Ered Luin, had done his best to conceal his worst side from his new business partner. Yet Nori had discovered that Azog was not only dishonest, but a vicious brute who took pleasure in persecuting Khazâd. It was one thing to deal with a corrupt Imperial officer, another to cooperate with such a vile man, so Nori had wanted out of any ongoing business with Azog and had already been planning to leave the neighbourhood.

Then a thought had struck him and he had changed his plans.

He had grown to loathe Azog so much that he had felt he could kill the man. Yet Azog was a big, wary fellow who would not fall into a trap without a struggle. And Nori had no desire to be caught red-handed, so he had bided his time and kept waiting for the right chance to dispatch that beast. When Azog had offered him money for taking a look at Ered Luin - to cause some mischief, Nori understood - Nori had played coy, but then he had accepted, concealing his pleasure in the idea.

What better chance to slice Azog’s throat than a midnight expedition through the forest?

The only coincidence in Nori’s case was that while he showed Azog the way to Ered Luin, a lantern swinging from his hand to clear the path through the forest and his burgling tools heavy in his pockets, his younger brother Ori could not sleep.

 

Like Nori, Ori’s case was mostly the result of Dori’s decision to leave Erebor.

Contrary to Nori though, Ori had been too young when they had left to remember anything about Erebor. He had only listened to his brothers talking - or rather quarrelling - about it, but his ideas did not have the strength of Nori’s memories. Besides, he did not dislike his life in Hobbitburg so much, though he had been feeling increasingly eager to experience some adventure far from the sleepy town.

Ori was a good observer with a flair for drawing, so he had spent a good deal of his time keeping his eye on what was going on at Ered Luin. Actually, _keeping an eye on things_ was the very reason why he had landed in such a job when he could have kept working at the shop with his brother.

Again Dori’s decision had changed the game and put Ori in Thorin Eijkenskialdi’s house.

Dori wanted information. He wanted to know how Eijkenskialdi lived, how much money he had left, and what sort of people were in his service. He wanted to know the nature of his work and its purpose; to know whether there was the promise of some gain or utter failure in it, and what the servants thought and said about it. And he wanted to know about the mysterious patient who had been lodged in the tower and no one had ever seen.

So Ori observed and reported from time to time. He grew tired with it though, because life at Ered Luin was utterly uneventful in Winter, and whatever Doctor Eijkenskialdi was up to, it was carefully kept from the servants. April found Ori wishing that he could leave his place at Ered Luin and return to working in the shop with Dori; yet the idea of abandoning the castle without having accomplished anything sat ill with him.

Like both his brothers, Ori would seldom waver if he set his mind to something, and this time he decided that he would not leave Ered Luin without at least a glimpse of the mysterious patient. He did not make plans about it, but he promised to himself that he would not let the chance pass, and if the chance did not come soon, he would create it.

It was after a rough day - Dwalin tended to be unfair in his reproaches when he was in a bad mood - that Ori kept turning in his bed, unable to fall asleep. He was not particularly nervous nor angered (one would grow used to Dwalin’s manners after a while), but sleep did not come and tiredness made him feel slightly drunk. It was in this altered state of mind that he started to think that it was far simpler than he had ever thought and that he should not have waited for so long when the answer had always been in his clever hands: one of the tricks his brother Nori had taught him would prove enough for the door of the tower. And then he would meet the mysterious patient at last.

 

 _Bilbo Baggins_.

Bilbo was Thorin Eijkenskialdi’s creature. He had been dreamt and designed and engineered, and yet there was something grossly unplanned about him. It was this lack of neatness that made the sight of Bilbo so unpleasant, despite the fact that his existence was but a sum of coincidences and consequences, not unlike Azog’s, Ori’s, Nori’s, and Thorin’s himself. But while they had motives to act upon, roles to play out, and standards to conform or not conform to, he was new to the game of living, and that is why he was likely to turn into its victim.  

He was woken up by the sound of something turning into the lock. If he had been able to think, he would have expected to see his master, either coming to comfort him or to hurt him again. But he was in that almost delirious state of mind which usually follows many sleepless hours of agony over the same ideas, so he did not form any coherent thought. He only realised that the door was moving and that there was some light on the other side. No more than that.

The next thing he knew was that this thing inside him, this core of fear and rage, sprang forward. If he had ever experienced something similar, he would have described it as being pulled out of dark waters toward the blinding light, air rushing into his lungs, his mouth agape, his whole body hauled up and forward. His hands reached first, as if he had practiced the motion over and over, and could repeat it without even seeing.

He probably saw though - Ori’s sudden horror made ghastlier by the way the candlelight fell on his features, then how the boy went rigid with fear and dropped his candle with a broken sigh. Next thing, they were both tumbling over the threshold of the cell, Bilbo on top, Ori’s back hitting the floor so hard that all breath came out of his mouth in a strangled cry. And whatever breath Ori had left, Bilbo tried to squeeze it out of him.

Ori’s neck was slightly coarse with the beard he had been trying to grow, but most of it was soft, young skin, warm with blood. Bilbo’s cold hands locked around it, his thumbs pressing under Ori’s chin, his fingers suddenly made of stone, so mercilessly they gripped and crushed.

Ori fought. He trashed, kicking and slapping, and if they had been fighting out of a tavern he would have probably won. He was a healthy boy, not used to fighting, but able to place a good kick and look out for himself; while Bilbo was weaker and less experienced.

Still, Ori was losing because this was not a fight among drunken lads.

It was a nightmare.

A demon was strangling him, a monster whose terrible eyes glittered in the dark, like will-o’-the-wisps burning in the heart of the night. Ori, who had always liked tales and whose vivid imagination had always supplied his mind with a very clear picture of the monsters in the stories, was suddenly face to face with one. His hands vainly tried to lose the grip around his throat, his eyes bulged while he tried to call for help - but fear made him weaker while it made Bilbo stronger.

When the flames licked Ori’s feet, he did not feel anything. His vision was blackening, the smoke rising from the fire the candle had started was just another thing keeping him from breathing, but he could not separate it from the hands on his throat. Neither did Ori realise when the weight was pulled off of him, nor was he able to hear the scream. His ears were full of a white buzz, his eyes  rolled back in his head.

Bilbo heard the screams though. He was screaming too, growling and crying like a cornered beast. He feared the fire more than the men. He had been hit with something heavy, and lost his hold; yet, dragged onto the floor with these men trying to hurt him, all he could think of was the fire.

 _Save me_ , he thought with sudden and desperate clarity, _save me master_.

He came. At some point his master was there. Among the flames, the cries, the people struggling between darkness and the sudden gush of red light, Thorin Eijkenskialdi was there. Bilbo’s only desire was to crawl at his master’s feet and be protected, cared for, even punished if his master wished it - but he wanted to belong again, and feel the hand of his master upon his head. He wanted forgiveness.

Something went wrong though, as if the more Bilbo tried to get close to his master, the more they were separated by the tide of fighting.

And suddenly a wave, like a chance, came crashing down on Bilbo. It was an opening, men fighting each other and the fire as well, no one between Bilbo and the door which opened onto the forest. Bilbo bolted for it, mad with fear of the flames, mad with sorrow and guilt and love for his master; he fled into the night.


	12. If I Cannot Inspire Love

_“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other. [...] If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear.”_

 

“What was that? What the bloody hell was that?”

Nori’s voice was low, no louder than a whisper. It went well with the hiss of the dying embers and the lingering moans of wood and metal - Bofur wondered if the tower would collapse and they would be buried under the debris before they could talk. No one was keeping them there, but they were all too tired and shocked to leave, and then there was Dwalin looming by the door as if to suggest that leaving was not such a good idea either.

Nori was sitting on the floor with his brother’s head in his lap. It was strange to see him taking care of Ori, holding a place that was usually Dori’s, but he was not so bad at it. Despite the swearing under his breath, and his face blackened with smoke and blood, Nori had done his best for Ori’s comfort - blankets, water, and reassuring words.

Ori had not spoken yet and his breathing was ragged, grating on Bofur’s ears and mingling with the memory of the sounds that _thing_ had been making during the struggle, but Eijkenskialdi had checked and declared that the lad would get better. The _shock_ though, that was something the doctor could not foresee, but on the other hand Bofur himself felt very disinclined to speak aloud at the moment.

It was surprising that Bofur could not find anything to say, yet it was as if his mind had been drained of all thoughts, and all he could think of was the fact that his bed was getting cold, and that he would have liked to be sent to his room like a child. His brother Bombur was in no better shape: he trembled like a leaf, his large belly shaken by half-repressed groans. Bombur’s hands had been burnt in the fight with the fire, but their master had already bandaged them after applying a layer of sage oil.

Bifur on the other hand had a stern look on his face. He had been as surprised as the rest of them, yet it looked like he was coping far better than anyone. It had been Bifur who had taken the lead, first when they had left their rooms - in their nightclothes, pans and knives in their hands, still in a sleepy haze - then when they had had to bring the fire under control.

Without Bifur’s cool guidance the fire would have made its way to the other parts of the house, of this Bofur felt sure. His cousin had always had a knack for leadership, but in a subdued, discreet sort of way. Bifur was fit to be the head of a large family or the owner of a farm, and it was a pity that he was just another servant at Ered Luin; but his experience as an officer in the army had made him wary of leaders and power and only imminent danger seemed to rouse Bifur’s authority.

Dwalin himself had not challenged Bifur’s directions, though in truth he had been too busy fighting with the other man - Azog, Bofur knew the man’s name from his time in Hobbitburg. Azog was an Imperial officer garrisoned in the neighbourhood to keep an eye on taxes and trade, but he was not the kind of fellow Bofur would willingly befriend. There was something unpleasant about Azog’s face - the small clear eyes, the thin scars reaching down to his lips so that his mouth always held a cruel look, and the large bald head. Bofur could be silly sometimes, but he had enough sense in his skull to guess that Azog was unlikely to be a jolly companion, so he had always avoided him.

Finding that Azog had entered Ered Luin would have been a frightening notion, if it had not paled in comparison to the _other thing_ Bofur had seen that night.

“I want to know what almost killed my brother,” Nori repeated.

He sounded very collected, but Bofur would not have been surprised if he had tried to stab Eijkenskialdi at any moment. After all, Bofur himself did not feel too well inclined toward his master either, because he guessed that the responsibility for what they were going through was on Eijkenskialdi’s head.

“Your brother should not have been here,” Master Thorin replied.

He was as pale as any of them, skin black with soot, hair loose and wild; still, Bofur thought with some disgust, Eijkenskialdi retained the bearing of the Durins. His shoulders were a little hunched, and there was a tremor in his hands, but his gaze - well, his gaze demanded obedience. And his voice was as deep and cold as it had ever been, as if after all he could decide to take the whip to this vagrant for his cheek.

“What devilry have you been working on, Eijkenskialdi?” Nori insisted. “My brother should not have been here, that’s right. Actually I wonder why he’s in your damned house at all. But since he was here, I suppose that old fool Dori did not think our brother would end up being throttled by some abomination you were keeping in your castle. Where the hell did you find that thing?”

“Hold your tongue, you rascal,” Dwalin intervened, with his back against the door of the tower.

“Your brother works for me,” Master Thorin said calmly. “I am sorry for what happened to him, but I had forbidden my servants from entering the tower. He disobeyed. And what about you, Master Nori? You got here uninvited, together with your friend Azog.”

Bofur was astonished by the fact that his master knew Azog’s name. Thorin never concerned himself with what was going on in Hobbitburg, let alone with the officers and soldiers the Empire garrisoned in the area.

“He’s not my friend,” Nori protested, but he was colouring under the accusation.

“You brought him here. You two broke into my house.”

“If I hadn’t, my brother would be dead. Killed by your monster.”

Eijkenskialdi smiled then, and it was the sort of smile Bofur would have rather not seen.

“My monster, yes,” he repeated, as if he found some pleasure in the phrasing. “What was your plan? Stealing? Killing? Setting the house on fire? Maybe you two were drunk and happened here on a whim, but I suspect that you had some plan. It would be within my rights to kill you on the spot for trespassing, Master Nori.”

Thorin’s last words roused a chorus of protests and Bofur found his tongue again:

“Master Thorin, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Master Nori here...sure, he’s a bad apple and all that, but we Khazâd should stick together, and surely you can forgive him for wanting to...take a look at Ered Luin, I suppose he and Azog were drunk, you said that, and didn’t really think about the consequences. And then there’s the bright side, the fact that if they had not been here the poor lad would be on your conscience, but Ori will be fine, you said so yourself, so can’t we forget all this business of Master Nori acting like a burglar, but not really being one, right?, and just tell us what’s going on.”

Bombur and Bifur said the same, more or less. Bombur stressing the fact that Ori had almost died and _we should all be grateful that no one was killed in this mischief_ , Bifur spitting a few Khuzdul words to express his opinion - that if Thorin tried something on Nori he would do his best to take down his own master. And then Dwalin threatened Bifur, Bofur babbled some more, Nori too, and there was so much noise and chaos that Eijkenskialdi had to shout:

“Stop! All of you!”

They did and looked at him, compelled by his authority despite it all. His chest was heaving, his gaze was dark and he looked at them all one by one.

“I will tell you everything. I am not pleased, and I think that there is no time, but I will do my best to explain. No, Dwalin, there’s no other solution,” he added, raising his hand because Dwalin had opened his mouth to speak. “I don’t like it and we are foolishly wasting time, but they need to know, and they need to choose whether this is how we part ways or whether they will follow me one last time.”

“That’s fair,” Bofur commented, but no one seemed to consider the issue so cheerfully.

“But in exchange for that, I must know why Azog was here, and what you did...to my monster.”

For a long moment, it looked as if Nori would refuse to speak at Eijkenskialdi’s bidding, but then he nodded curtly. _After all, he’s the intruder_ Bofur thought.

“Azog and I have been doing business of late,” Nori said with a smirk. “I have heard enough from him and about him to wish to... _part ways_ with him,” he continued, carefully using Thorin’s own words. “He was interested in this house and asked for my help to get inside.”

“A damn good talent of yours, Master Nori” Bombur grumbled, looking at the man with contempt.

“Some are born servants, others...” Nori replied with a sharp glance.

Bombur almost made to step forward, but Bifur kept him back with a gesture.

“So you forced the locks and got inside,” Dwalin said, “and your friend with you.”

“I said that he’s not my friend,” Nori repeated through his teeth.

“Well, you gave him a bloody good hand.”

“We weren’t supposed to get that far!”

“What do you mean by that? What were you supposed to do?” Thorin inquired, frowning.

“Listen, I don’t know what was on Azog’s mind. I know he wanted to get inside and take a look, he’s kind of obsessed with Khazâd and the Durins in particular. I...I think he knew you from Wien,” he added, looking up at the master of Ered Luin with wariness.

“We’re old acquaintances, Azog and I,” Thorin admitted with some bitterness. “I suppose we didn’t like each other then, and the years have hardly been kind in that regard.”

“Was...was it _personal_?” Bofur asked, because he felt that he was losing the point of it all.

“No,” Thorin replied, but Nori said “Yes,” at the same time.

“I think it was,” Nori insisted, despite Thorin’s annoyed glance. “I told you, the fellow hates Khazâd, and probably swore to harm you and...”

“And you took such a man to Ered Luin!” Bombur interrupted. “With your brother working here...what did we do to you to deserve an enemy inside the house? You, with all your talking about our culture and our pride, and all your contempt for your brother’s ways...oh, I know you Master Nori, I know how you liked to vent about the decline of the Khazâd folk. Now you come here, to  _our house_ , and bring this Azog and his hatred for our race.”

“ _He_ kept a monster here!” Nori raised his voice, pointing at Thorin accusingly. “Aren’t you going to say anything about that? If you weren’t all so scared, I’d think that you were in with him about that thing!”

“I’ll get to that later!” Bombur shouted back, but this time it was Bofur who stepped between the two men before they could start a fight anew.

“I don’t understand why you did it Nori,” he said simply, looking at him.

Bofur had never disliked Nori - when they were young lads they even used to play together, though Nori’s mood had always changed too swiftly for Bofur’s taste. He also knew about Nori’s bad habits and his tendency to challenge the law, but he did not mind too much because he felt sure that his flaws stemmed from caring too much rather than caring too little.

“I told you,” Nori murmured, looking down at Ori’s chalk-white face in his lap. “I wanted to get rid of Azog, and we would be alone at night if I brought him here. Only I...”

“For fuck’s sake,” Dwalin interrupted him. “You didn’t have the guts to kill the fellow. You thought you would, but then you took him here and you didn’t get to strike him down.”

Nori’s colour spiked up - _he’s ashamed_ , Bofur understood, _ashamed that he hasn’t killed a man in cold blood_. He felt pity for Nori, who had taken upon himself such a merciless task and then had not been able to see it through. _What would I have done in his place?_ Bofur wondered, because he understood the sort of feelings which might have encouraged Nori to devise such an ill-fated plan. _The people who hate us Khazâd force us to hate them in turn, and that’s another way they have to bring harm to our door._

“I thought...” Nori began, but then shook his head. “I didn’t mean to let him inside, but then I couldn’t stop once we got here.”

“And then you entered the tower.”

“No, we weren’t moving this way, but then we heard Ori’s scream. I swear I didn’t know my brother was working here, Dori...Dori didn’t tell me,” he spat bitterly. “But then I must be glad I came, because the monster would have killed him otherwise.”

“You don’t know that,” Eijkenskialdi said and everyone gaped at him. He only waved his hand, as if to dismiss their horror at his doubt that such a monster would have taken the lad’s life. “Finish your story,” he told Nori.

“There’s not much left,” the man shrugged. “We found the door of the tower unlocked and we saw Ori being strangled by that monster. There was the fire, I think Ori dropped a candle or the monster himself decided to set fire to the castle, I don’t know how it happened and I don’t care. I attacked the monster and asked Azog to help me, but he...”

“He tried to spread the fire,” Dwalin growled. “I’m damn sure he meant to burn the castle to the ground, and us inside. I should have cracked his head open, but he’s a damn big fellow, and then there was the fire...”

“You did well,” Thorin said. He looked suddenly tired, now that he had had his explanation. “You all did well, saving Ori’s life and the castle as well.”

“Now it’s your turn for honesty, Eijkenskialdi,” Nori reminded him.

“I know. I won’t try to avoid it, but we must hurry...”

 _Why should we?_ Bofur wondered with a shudder. Did Master Thorin mean to chase the monster?

“Ori! Ori!”

They all froze at the shouts. Nori blinked and then he said:

“He’s my brother. Dori.”

Bofur himself had recognised his voice, and a moment later someone was pounding at the tower door, while Dwalin was trying to keep it shut. But Thorin got there in two strides, and put his hand on Dwalin’s shoulder.

“Let him in. Let him see his brothers. There’s no secret to keep anymore.”

Dwalin stepped aside then, and the door flew open. Dori, on the threshold, immediately spotted Ori on the ground, and turned toward the master of the house.

“Will he live?” he asked curtly.

Thorin nodded and it seemed enough for Dori - quite extraordinary, since in Bofur’s opinion there was enough written on their pale, blackened, or bloodied faces to astonish any man. But apparently Master Dori was not your average shopkeeper, and he only cleared his throat before saying:

“I took the fastest horse I could find and rode it here at great speed to get to Ered Luin before anyone else. _They’re coming._ I don’t know how it was done, but that officer planned the whole things with other soldiers, and they were ready for his order - ready to rouse the people of Hobbitburg against Ered Luin and against you, Doctor Eijkenskialdi.”

It was enough for Bofur to paint them vividly in his mind. He had not been in Erebor at the time, but there were things Khazad folk knew, whether they had gone through all that or not - there was always a friend, a cousin, someone you knew that had been killed, robbed, abused...and there were those who had simply vanished, swallowed by that great dragon which was the Empire, hoarding people and lands, and hating everything that did not bear its mark and its yoke.

So yes, Bofur’s life had been easier than many others, still he could see them coming, with torches and pitchforks shouting the old names and insults, fear making them hideous - the very men who had drunk with him at the _Green Dragon_ , the ones who laughed at his jokes. But they were no longer thinking of Bofur, merry, nice Bofur - only of Bofur the stranger, Bofur of the Khazad folk.

“Since Azog came back,” Dori was saying, “with his clothes torn and half-burned, he has been telling everyone that you raised an abomination here. He also said that my brother had been killed by this monster of yours.”

Bofur suddenly noticed that Dori, under his cape, was armed. _He would have shot Master Thorin if Ori had died_ , he realised with a shudder.

“There’s a monster,” Nori said, speaking for the first time since his older brother had arrived.

“Well, they’re coming to get the monster, and the rest of you if you allow them. It’s a mob, and they will put their hands on every weapon they can find on their way to the castle. Azog will incite them, but he won’t have to do too much, since they’ve been talking about your sins throughout the whole Winter, Doctor Eijkenskialdi.”

“I suppose I must face them then,” Thorin replied haughtily. “After all, he’s _my_ monster.”

 

*

 

The pointed roof which once topped the small tower had crumbled to pieces long ago. Shepherds had taken the roof tiles away to reuse them for their shelters, though a heap of broken dark shingles still lay on the ground floor. The rest of the building looked as if trolls had feasted upon it, devouring chunks of brick and stone, smashing walls and snapping beams. It would have been impossible to recognise the old mill for what it was, if the big disproportionate wheel had not remained in place.

It was strange that the wheel had bore the decline better than the rest of the mill. The wood was rotting and a few rays were broken, still the great wheel towered over the ruins. Moss and nests had grown upon the blades, so that the wheel now looked like part of the forest, or at least a very obliging guest among the tall trees.

The water still gurgled and rushed under the wheel, but the stream had dried considerably since the days when the mill had been built - that was why it had been abandoned. The stream was not enough to turn the wheel, but flowers covered the earth around the mill and some blossomed in the cracks between the stones.

It was only natural that Bilbo should like the place. Thorin had taken him to the old mill during one of their first walks, and they had conversed about flour and flowers. Still, Bilbo had not planned to reach the mill - or any place, for all it mattered.

Only by chance had his escape from Ered Luin brought him here, and he had not even recognised the place at first, so changed and spectral the mill looked at midnight. All the flowers were closed and owls peered at him with their golden eyes from their nests; even the wheel appeared different, like a ghost would look completely wrong compared to a living thing.

Although he was afraid of the place, Bilbo could not have gone any further - he was too tired and his legs felt heavy. So he had climbed the ruins until he could reach no higher without feeling nauseous with fear, hauling his exhausted, battered body into a small crack of the ruined tower. At least he could see the stars from his nest of moss and stone, and the darkness was less thick up there.

He could not find any rest though. He kept pulling at his nightgown, the only thing he had been wearing when he fled from Ered Luin, trying to get it to cover his feet or his hands. There was too little cloth to protect him from the cold seeping into his bones, still he tried again and again, almost tearing the nightgown apart. His nose and throat burnt from the smoke he had inhaled, and he could _feel_ the weight of the soot on his face and his hands, as well as the prickling from a few cuts he had sustained in the fight.

Yet all this amounted to nothing compared to the state of Bilbo’s mind.

 

 _I didn’t mean it_  he repeated to himself, over and over. Yet he had done it, he had almost _killed_.

Bilbo Baggins - the other one, the one he was not - knew about killing.

Not about killing men though, only rabbits and chickens. The Bagginses had raised their own small courtyard animals, and they had been used to meat on Sundays. As often as not, Bilbo Baggins had witnessed the killing of chickens and rabbits at the hand of the servants, and how they would be plucked and skinned, flavoured and cooked, then served to the family. Sometimes a hunter would stop by and Bilbo Baggins would look at the pheasants and maybe examine a cut of venison before making his purchase.

So Bilbo Baggins knew about blood and lifeless things, and flowers rotting in a vase.

His parents had been killed too, but killed by the harshest Winter Bilbo Baggins had ever known, and by the consuming sickness that came with it - Fell Winter, so it was called in Hobbitburg, when the mountains had been riddled with wolves, so ravenous that they came howling right under the windows of Bag End.

As for the idea of _killing a_ man, despite the fact that in Hobbitburg such a heinous crime had not been committed in a long time, there were frightening tales the children were told by the servants, and the stories soldiers and mercenaries brought from the wars. People in Hobbitburg did not like those kinds of tales, but still they seeped in, the world outside constantly trying to infect their small gardens.

Bilbo only knew that when the door of his room had opened he had wished to kill. He could not say if he had tried to kill the servant because he was not Master Thorin, or if he had been so set on killing his master that it had been impossible to stop, even if the servant did not look like Thorin at all - he was, this he could remember, the servant called Ori, the one the others mocked because he was the youngest among them.  

There had been a voice inside Bilbo’s head telling him to keep squeezing, not to loosen his hold on the servant’s neck, and then to hate, hate, and hate with all his spirit and his energy. At the time it had felt like being _possessed_ \- oh, how many new concepts Bilbo could find among Bilbo Baggins’ memories!

There were tales of horror where people had no will of their own and were forced to do terrible things. Voices in their heads guided their hands and their mouths, and they could not escape the possession because there were greater and far more cunning powers involved. Sometimes it was the work of a warlock and a concoction carelessly swallowed, sometimes a simple trinket - a golden ring for example - the victim would not be able to get rid of, and then the voices would start, suggesting and threatening, tempting the mind with visions of power.

But there was no desire for power in Bilbo’s heart. That _will_ which had tried to kill the servant had been born out of misery, because by now he had remembered enough of Bilbo Baggins’ life to know that he, Doctor Eijkenskialdi’s creature, was a monster - an impossible, ugly thing created to satisfy a man’s vanity.

 _Bilbo Baggins was dead_ , Bilbo thought, _and I came to life. I’m not him, and still I’m him_.

He felt torn and broken-hearted like a rejected lover. Whether his own conscience rejected him, or Thorin Eijkenskialdi had spurned him, or Life was turning him down as Death had already done once, he did not know. If he had loved in his short strange life, he had loved his master, and yet it was not only the loss of Thorin and his protection that made him feel so wretched. He had lost himself, and he suspected that he had never truly had a _self_ to speak for, only a body created on purpose and a mind built through lessons.

He was Doctor Eijkenskialdi’s creature indeed.

Not Bilbo Baggins. Not the plump, fastidious bourgeois whose memories threatened to drown him - he could still recall his parents’ voices and the way his heart would grow warm at the very thought of them; he could remember the smell of his kitchen, and how he would dismiss the cook for the day and take pleasure in preparing his meals by himself ; he could picture each patch of flowers and herbs growing in the small garden where he would smoke his pipe, idly planning for the days ahead, yet never going as far as beyond his own death.

Still here he was, _beyond_. Thorin Eijkenskialdi had dragged him here, literally out of his grave. Not all of him though, only some, because clearly this body was not - this face, these scars were not Bilbo Baggins’.

He owned nothing, and he was in pieces.

Then it started to rain.

 

When Thorin came, Bilbo had been falling in and out of sleep for a couple of hours. Tired and cold as he was, he would slip into unconsciousness without even noticing it, but then the nightmares would start, and when he woke up - his whole body tense like a bow - the nightmares would still be there at his side. So he was not sure if the voices and the fires in the night were real, if there were people running through the trees and dogs howling and prowling, and the silver gleam of knives. He dreamt of the forest on fire, but when he woke up the trees were not ablaze. He dreamt of long, dark tunnels, and cobwebs, and struggled against their sticky fingers, but he found no trace of their flimsy threads when he woke up. Only the rain fell on him at all times.

He realised that they were probably looking for him. He did not have any doubt about the fact that he was being chased, and not only because they had tried to hurt him at Ered Luin and he had hurt the servant Ori, but because he knew through Bilbo Baggins’ experience that monsters must be hunted down.

He was not averse to the idea of escaping, yet he could not think what he would do with himself, except facing the thing he was and the thing he had done - or almost done. It seemed as frightening as the rest, so he did not leave his refuge in the mill and did not stir even when he heard - or dreamt - that there were people searching the ground around the mill and climbing up to the second store. They did not see him though, or maybe they were nightmare people who could not touch him. They left him alone anyway, and the hounds chased something else up the mountain side, barking madly.

But when Thorin came, Bilbo recognised the way the weight of his body made the stairs creak and even the smell of his damp clothes. He had brought a small lamp with him, not a torch, so the flame had not been quenched by the rain and the light could explore each crevice. The light blinded Bilbo. He squeezed his eyes shut and hid his face behind his hands, because it felt as if the light could pull open every scar on his body, and leave him naked and flayed to the mercy of Thorin’s gaze.

There was a soft intake of breath - his master’s surprise at finding him at last, burrowed among stones and patches of moss. Then no noise except that of the rain drenching them both, and the muffled sound of their breath, as rough as if they had been fighting linking their arms and legs, and trying to choke one another. The light from the lantern shifted, so that only Bilbo’s feet were illuminated and he could raise his eyes to his master. He could not see much, but what he saw was haggard and pained. The change was shocking, as if the very bones of Thorin’s skull had been rearranged to show absolute sorrow, hollowing cheeks and sharpening his mouth, his eyes drowned beneath the brows and still so blue that they made Bilbo feel colder. Now they both looked like monsters.  

Suddenly, a lightning ripped through the soaked coat of darkness upon them and the livid light showed Thorin crouched on the stone floor of the mill, a few feet away from Bilbo. He had put the lantern down and held a heavy-looking sword in his hand, rain glistening over the blade as well as over Thorin’s whitened knuckles.

 _So I will die during a storm_ , Bilbo thought coldly, blinking against the rain which prickled his eyes. It felt right that they would be doing this during a storm, while the thunder filled their ears and their skulls, and the jet-black sky was being pulled apart by the lightning. After all, they had been running in circles and now they were going back to their start.

There was some peace in that, some tidiness. Like a properly folded handkerchief.

“You betrayed me.”

Thorin’s voice came as a surprise to Bilbo, for he had not expected that there would be any talking _before_.

“I didn’t betray you,” he denied, but either his voice was drowned out by the rain or his master did not intend to listen, because Thorin said:

“And now we are both lost.”

 _Lost together_  Bilbo thought, and his heart swelled in delight, and there was also the bittersweet taste of revenge on his tongue at the idea. He half-closed his eyes, letting himself be lulled by the intimacy of the moment, because - though he suspected that Dwalin might not be far and maybe he was only waiting on the ground floor for the thing to be done - he and Thorin had been left alone for the time being. _It’s always you and me after all_.

“I didn’t betray you,” he repeated, because it felt like Thorin had to know that at least.

“You turned into the monster people see when they look at you,” Thorin insisted, the thunder in his voice possibly louder than the blast in the sky.

 _And you, what do you see master?_ Bilbo wondered hopelessly.

“You made me,” he replied instead, “you betrayed me first.”

Thorin seemed to sag under the weight of those words. Or it might have been his tiredness and the horror of the night catching up with him at last, making him fall to his knees, his sword grating against the stone floor.

“I am sorry,” he began, his voice still unbroken despite the frightening look in his eyes, “that I created you.”

Bilbo did not know how to weep, despite the fact that he remembered a little of what it felt like. At least there was the rain washing his face in tears, and no one could have noticed that he was not really crying. He said nothing, because he could not bring himself to declare that he was sorry too for having been created - he was not, but it was too painful to admit that, and he had his ounce of pride after all.

He heard Thorin shifting and knew that he was moving closer. Soon he would be in his master’s arms.

“I am responsible for your fate,” Thorin said in a whisper that was almost lost in the beat of the rain and the thump of Bilbo’s heart. Then he raised his sword.


	13. Epilogue

“ _It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world;_

 _but on that account we shall be more attached to one another_.”

 

_Nothing ends here. The land, the sea. The sky. They stretch as far as the eye can go._

_Their endlessness is enticing, and frightening._

_The land merges into the sea, the sea rises to hide the land, the sky pours its light into lakes and pools, rocks rips through the waves, icebergs appear on the horizon like stranded isles or lost ships. On some days the greyness is everywhere - grey is the ice filling the crevices, grey is the water lapping the grey, glossy coastline; grey the mountains and the short grass which is the only thing that can grow there._

_On other days everything bursts into fantastic colours, like a maniac’s dream. Then the sky burns with green and blue fire; the water in the pools is sapphires and diamonds, there is red and pink in the sea, and the mountains turn yellow-green and purple. The ice, then, is pure gold._

_Even the_ goshverir _\- that’s what people around here call the scalding water and vapours that erupt from the earth - can change their feathers, showing orange and silver._

_Nothing ends here, and all changes under our eyes. It’s either exhausting or reassuring, depending on the day. Today the sea is turquoise and slabs of ice lie on the beach like scattered tiles of a mysterious, translucent chessboard._

_Chess has become one of our favourite pastimes, I suppose because it requires concentration and does not necessarily involve any talking._

_Not that we dislike talking. We still enjoy our conversations and we do agree that it is better to talk about the things that pain us rather than keeping secrets, but sometimes it is too much, like the nakedness of this land when the sun never sets for months at a time._

_I wonder if this place might be the reason why Khazâd are what they are - unyielding one moment, changeable and elusive the next. It is said that the first Khazâd woke from their sleep in a land that reminds me of this one, and saw their faces for the first time mirrored in the water of a lake._

_Legends may have got it right, since the similarities between Khuzdul and the North Germanic languages suggest that Khazâd came from the Norse people, and then mingled their blood with Magyar and German and Danish folk, maybe even Mongols and Turks. But their first blood and their first bones must have belonged here, to this land of ice and earth, metal and fire._

_We have taken to linguistics as well. Balin and Ori frequently join our discussions about the origins and the evolution of Khuzdul, and Ori is keeping a record of our theories and discoveries. Discussing the birth and death of languages keeps us from other topics, and offers us a safer field of research - as far as words can be safe._

_Still, I feel like we are biding our time._

_I am not thinking only of Azog. One day he will track us down, I feel sure of that. I know that kind of hate, for I feel I could hate the same way and it would be relentless. Sooner or later we will all meet on the ice._

_Yet, there is something else coming. I look at him and I know it._

 

_I remind myself that we have something akin to a peaceful life here. We live simply. We fish and we hunt, we grow potatoes, turnips, carrots, and cauliflowers. We smoke our own fish and Dwalin has learnt how to make butter and soft cheese, and there has been some talking of raising sheep and goats to get our own milk, meat, and wool. We also collect wild herbs - thyme grows all around our huts - and berries._

_A few weeks ago Nori presented us with the first bottle of a new aquavit of his own invention in the manner of the local_ brennivín _. All became drunk on it, with the exception of him and me. It is wiser not to allow ourselves to lose control, and I guess that distrust plays a part in it._

_Yet despite the constant threat we must bear our small community thrives._

_It must be the traditional resilience of Khazâd folk, so even this exile can be turned into a new home, as long as there are songs to be sung at night around the fire and food to be shared. We owe Dori for most of it. It is strange to think that there was a time when the people in Ered Luin thought that Ori had been sent to spy upon the castle and his inhabitants; it was true, but it was not mischief brewing in Dori’s heart._

_It was a chance, and we took it when time came to despair._

_Ori told me that it had happened before - Dori guessing that things would take a turn for the worse, and making preparations to leave. Once Dori and his younger brothers left Erebor before the city could fall into the hands of the Imperial troops; Dori saved his family but left many friends behind that time. In Ered Luin he saw the chance to pay his debt - the debt of being alive while many others were dead - and he offered us an escape. Money enough to support us during our journey and then to help us settle down, but also horses and provisions, and false documents to take us all to the North coast and then on a ship._

_I think that his brother Nori was greatly shocked when he learnt about Dori’s plan, while I think that Balin may have had a part in it, though he has always denied knowing anything beforehand since he reached us in Danzig. I hear them say that Óin and Glóin may join us as well one day, and then we would be a company and others may want to share in our perils._

_I do not think it will ever happen though. It is enough that these few people can accept sharing their life with us, despite all we have gone through. It is mostly my fault, or should I say_ ours _. I am afraid that I can no longer think of myself alone, there is always two of us._

_We are bound to each other and the others have come to understand this._

_I marvel at their ability to accept the strangeness of us two. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Khazâd have been persecuted and oppressed, and sooner or later every Khazâd has been made feel like a monster one way or another. So among our small company monsters deserve some sympathy._

 

_It is not always easy. Regret and remorse followed us, together with the flaws we already knew about ourselves, and others we discovered once we had to face this barren landscape that seems to offer no hiding place. Sometimes the anger boils and someone threatens another or leaves for days at a time; but such episodes become rarer the more we settle into this life. Fear often lingers among us, but mistrust fades as we learn that this land requires a different set of skills, and together we have a better chance at surviving._

_I do not want to delude myself into thinking that they are all fond of me, or him. Still, there is some loyalty to be found in unexpected places and a kind of desperate happiness growing like soft moss on our hearts. We do nothing about it, we do not sow nor expect anything to bloom, but it is there nonetheless._

_However, we must keep to ourselves from time to time._

_We must leave the others and retire further into the mountains until the storm passes on. Each time I leave I wonder if I will be back, if it will not end in the death of one of us at last, or both. I think he may kill me in my sleep, I think I may kill him in his sleep. We fight. We scream until our lungs hurt and the land says nothing, only takes our screams and hides them under the ice, under the foam and the vapour._

_I fled a few times, hoping that I would leave him behind and he would not follow. He always follows me, or I return. It is a rope running from me to him and back, I don’t know where it starts and if I cut it, I would bleed. But the rope tightens sometimes, and then we both choke with disgust and hatred at this thing between us that can never be undone. I’m his, and he’s mine._

_We grow closer and we grow more similar with each month we spend here. I’m surprised that the others can still recognise one from the other when I feel that our flesh melts and our thoughts are the same. Two sides of the same coin, and monsters living together: I’m his prisoner or he is mine._

_He can be the most pleasant companion and a good friend, I must admit that much. I enjoy our talks and our walks, and looking upon him and watching out for him. We take care of each other, and sometimes he feeds me with his own hands when my spirit is so low that I cannot eat. When I lay feverish he never left my bedside, he changed my linens and sponged my burning skin; he whispered reassurances and threats into my ears, and kept me alive. He makes me laugh, no matter how preposterous this might sound, and sometimes his hand seeks mine and I let him hold it for as long as he wishes._

_We can be friends with the others - with Bofur who plays merry notes on his flute whenever the mood threatens to drown us all, with Bombur and his ability to put a good meal together from scraps while he complains about the quality of the flour, with Bifur for his humble resourcefulness and Dwalin for his brutish loyalty, with Balin, Ori, Dori, Nori. But there is something which separates us from the others, like a fault only he and I share._

_We are often alone, even in the company of others._

_And when we are truly alone it is both liberating and terrifying._

 

_I met a man a few days ago. A strange kind of man, clad in grey. I grew afraid at the sight of him - we do not see many strangers around here, so I obviously thought that he had come for us. I saw him walking briskly, as if he had some urgent matter at hand, though all that was in sight were the round hills of solidified lava covered in green and golden moss. I hid in a hollow in the ground and observed his movements._

_A tall man, but I could not see his face, though I saw his grey beard, because he wore a hat. A pointy one, quite battered, not in a fashion I have seen in this part of the world. He also carried a rod with him, like a shepherd would, but he was not a shepherd._

_I think that he saw me, despite my hiding place. I could not move and I thought his eyes were grey like the rest of him, but I could not have possibly seen them from such a distance, and maybe he had not really seen me though I felt speared by his gaze. Then he went away._

_I told him first about the stranger,' and I saw that he was afraid, but he said nothing. I told the others later during supper and they asked many questions but no one could recall having met such a man before. Only Balin said that it might have been Odin, or Wotan as the Germans called him. It made me laugh, but while I was in bed I could not stop thinking that this place might be still inhabited by old gods after all. At least it is a better theory than thinking that I might be hallucinating, seeing things and people that are not there._

_Indeed I could go mad. Or he could._

 

_Dealing with death for so long may have made us unfit for living, so that all our thoughts cast a shadow. Except that sometimes I feel happier here than I could ever have been in Ered Luin. I know it does not amount to much, since part of me was always miserable there - for all that I had lost, and all that could not be given back to me. Here I may be teaching myself to turn my despair into something sweet and intoxicating, so that I think I am sober while I am constantly drunk on my own sorrow - mine and his._

_We drink from each other’s cup like lovers at their nuptials._

_I think I will cut his throat and let his blood spill on the snow. I think I will strangle him and see him gasp my name while he draws his last breath. I think I will drown him, keep him under water with my hands while he struggles and I get as wet as him. I will punish him and kill him a thousand times for his betrayal._

_And then I remember that all this started with death, but I want us to grow old together, or at least I want another day with him at my side. I think he is trying to make me love him, and sometimes his love for me comes fast and hard, and merciless like hate._

_Still, I hold his fate in my hands and he holds mine; we shan’t be parted._

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, I'm on Tumblr as [erinyewrites](http://erinyewrites.tumblr.com/) and I'd love to hear from you readers / writers / passersby!


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